


Under the Hide of Me

by poisonivory



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-03 10:02:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5286485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonivory/pseuds/poisonivory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a case turns dangerous, Matt appoints himself Foggy's personal bodyguard. Foggy's not complaining - but he <i>would</i> like to know why Daredevil won't stop flirting with him.</p><p>Not that he's complaining about that, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/5006.html?thread=9718926#cmt9718926) on the kink meme. Title comes Cole Porter's "Night and Day."

It’s one of the first really chilly nights of fall, the kind of night that casts scraggly fingers of bare tree branches across the full moon and makes Foggy think of hot cocoa and ghost stories. He turns his collar up against the wind, hunches into it and moves a little faster on his way home. He was the last one in the office, which is half a triumph and half a worry - a triumph because Karen actually leaving at quitting time is a sign that she’s on the road to recovery, a worry because he knows perfectly well what Matt left the office to do.

He glances up at the thought, but there’s no sign of Daredevil bounding across the rooftops or shimmying up telephone poles or whatever it is he does. Foggy’s never actually seen him in action save for some grainy security footage on the news.

Which is probably a good thing. The people who get to see Daredevil in action tend to be either criminals or victims. Still, even after finding Matt in the mask, Foggy can’t quite picture it.

He’s two blocks from home when someone steps out of the shadows and blocks his path. Well, shit.

“Franklin Nelson?” the guy says. Well, double shit. Someone asking for him by name is probably not going to be satisfied with just his wallet like the two times Foggy was mugged in the pre-Daredevil days.

“Who’s asking?” Foggy asks warily, even though it’s such a gangster movie cliche that he feels like an idiot. He tries to think positive - maybe he’s about to be handed a giant novelty check or something. Maybe he’s about to be asked to join the Avengers!

The guy steps closer and Foggy takes a hasty step back. The stranger’s just a kid, really, but Foggy’s lived in Hell’s Kitchen too long not to know when someone means business. And he’s _probably_ not an Avenger.

“Stay away from the Giacomo case,” the kid says.

Foggy wishes he hadn’t turned his collar up, because now he’s sweating. “Sorry, I can’t do that,” he says. “Ms. Giacomo is my client. I have a responsibility to her.”

“Wrong,” the kid says, and - oh, _fuck_ \- pulls out a switchblade. “Ms. Giacomo _was_ your client.”

Foggy takes another step back, shaking, hands up. He’s ready to run but he knows he’s not faster than a skinny eighteen-year-old who probably does this all the time. “Come on, man, you don’t have to do this.”

“I do unless you drop the case,” the kid says, and he’s about to attack, Foggy can _tell_ , awareness heightened and focusing on this one moment - 

\- and Daredevil drops down between them with a growl.

Foggy’s shocked momentarily speechless, which is probably good because it’s the only reason he doesn’t shout “MATT!” and then maybe start crying. Matt’s facing the kid now, anyway.

“You work for the Gulyas family,” he says. His voice is in a lower register than usual, a rumble along his bass notes. Foggy shivers, the sweat on his body starting to cool in the night air.

“Man, fuck you!” the kid says, and - points for bravery - lunges at Matt, knife first. Foggy’s breath catches in his throat as he stutters in place, torn between bolting from their attacker and trying futilely to help Matt.

Matt barely seems to move, but suddenly the knife is clattering across the sidewalk, and the kid is grabbing his wrist and cringing.

“You work for the Gulyas family,” Matt says again. The calm in his voice doesn’t bode well; Foggy’s heard that note in class and in court, before Matt utterly destroys his opponent. “Why did they send you after F-- after this man?”

The kid turns to run - and Matt grabs him, hauls him back by his collar and _slams_ him into the side of the nearest building. His head hits the brick with an audible _crack_ and Foggy winces.

The kid droops, sinking to the ground, and Matt hauls him up again by his jacket, shaking him. His head bobbles around like a hula girl on a truck driver’s dashboard. He’s out cold. “Wake up, I’m not done with you,” Matt snarls. “Why are you after him?”

He slams the kid into the wall again, which is going to do nothing except give him bruised shoulder blades to wake up to. “Answer me!”

“Ma - ” Foggy catches himself, just in case there’s someone in earshot. “Daredevil! Stop!”

Matt freezes, then drops the kid like he’s on fire and steps back. It’s hard to read his expression in the mask, but there’s something in his posture that reminds Foggy of a dog that knows it’s been bad. “I’m sorry,” he says, and that’s Matt’s pitch suddenly, Matt’s cadence. “I didn’t, I didn’t ever want you to see - ”

“Thank you for saving me, _Daredevil_ ,” Foggy says hastily, because he remembers Matt has a secret identity even if Matt doesn’t. “I’m lucky that you happened by, especially since we’re _total strangers_.”

Matt pauses, then straightens up. “Right,” he says, moving closer, _way_ into Foggy’s personal space. “Are you all right?”

His voice is back down in the Daredevil register. The change is so abrupt Foggy can’t suppress another shiver. “I’m fine.”

Matt tilts his head. He looks thoughtful like this, alert. Focused. “I’m just glad I wasn’t too late,” he says.

That makes two of them. “No, your timing is impeccable.”

Matt grins at him. And - oh. _Well_. Matt’s always been model-handsome, but there’s something about the way his teeth flash in the darkness when he’s wearing the suit that makes his smile different. Mysterious. _Dangerous_.

Foggy sends up a silent thank you to the heavens that his heart was _already_ racing before that smile.

“Glad to hear it,” Matt says. “Are you okay to get home, sir?”

It’s probably best not to think too hard about what Matt calling him “sir” does to Foggy’s stomach. He keeps his tone light with an effort. “I didn’t know you offered door-to-door service.”

“Not as a rule, but I’d be willing to make an exception,” Matt says, that sharp smile curling around the words. His gloved hand reaches for Foggy’s wrist, but doesn’t quite touch.

Foggy doesn’t move his wrist into Matt’s grasp, but he doesn’t move away, either. “I think I’ll be okay.”

“In that case…” Matt sways in slightly. His lips are redder than the suit. “Sweet dreams.”

Foggy blinks. Matt takes a few steps back, then bounds off onto the nearest trashcan, using it as a springboard onto a fire escape and up, over and over until he’s on the roof and out of sight.

Foggy lets out a shaky breath. “Well,” he says to no one. No one except Matt, who can probably still hear him. “Okay.”

*

Matt wasn’t _flirting_.

Maybe that’s just how superheroes talk. How would Foggy know? He’s never met any other superheroes. Maybe they all stand a little bit too close and smile a little bit too knowingly and wish you sweet dreams like they want to be in them. Maybe it’s an industry standard.

Of course, as far as Foggy knows, _Matt_ has never met any other superheroes either, so he has no way of knowing what the industry standards are, but maybe there’s a message board or something.

Anyway, he’s back to his normal Matt voice and his normal Matt behavior now. It’s the next morning, and he’s leaning on Foggy’s desk, nursing a cup of coffee with a little line of worry over his glasses.

“I didn’t think the Giacomo case would be this dangerous,” he says. “Maybe we should tag team this one.”

“We don’t have the time, or the manpower,” Foggy points out. “You’ve got cases of your own. We agreed that handling clients solo would make the most sense.” Taking down Fisk has done a lot more than just make the neighborhood safer; they’ve had a steady influx of clients ever since, and though it’s doing wonders for their bank accounts, it’s getting harder and harder to balance the workload, especially since they’re both constitutionally incapable of turning down any client with a sob story. And there are a lot of sob stories in Hell’s Kitchen.

The Giacomo case is just one of them - a wrongful arrest, or at least Matt swears up and down that Maria Giacomo is telling the truth when she says she didn’t kill her cousin, and Foggy doesn’t need to be able to hear her heartbeat to agree. Sure, her family’s mobbed up to hell and back, but by all accounts her dad walked away from that two decades ago, and Maria’s only eighteen and clean as a whistle. She’s not the first woman found with blood on her hands who Nelson and Murdock have defended.

“That was when we thought this was just infighting between the Giacomos,” Matt protests. “Now the Hungarians are involved. I don’t like you in the middle of an interfamily fight by yourself.”

Foggy rolls his eyes. “I’m a big boy, Matty.”

“You’re wearing a tie with dinosaurs on it.”

Foggy glances down. “Pandas. Nice try.”

Matt shrugs and flashes a little smile. “It was worth a shot.” He grows serious again. “The point stands. What if they send someone else after you?”

Foggy raises his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, is _Matt Murdock_ suggesting that we back down from defending an innocent woman because it might be dangerous? What about justice? What would Thurgood Marshall think?”

“What if Daredevil’s not around next time?” Matt retorted.

“Then I’ll ask Karen where she bought her pepper spray.”

“I’m serious, Foggy.”

“So am I!” Foggy put his own coffee cup down. “I called 911 last night, they’re already questioning the kid with the knife. _And_ I told Brett. So the word’s probably out there already that the NYPD and Daredevil are both looking out for me, which means the Gulyases will probably decide to lean on someone else. But even if they don’t, what are you going to do helping me on the case as _Matt Murdock_ that’ll stop someone from taking a shot at me on my way home?”

Matt stiffens and his hands tense so visibly on his coffee mug Foggy’s worried he’ll snap the handle off. “That won’t happen.”

“You’re right. It won’t. At least, I don’t think it will. And look, Matty, it’s not that I’m not… _alarmed_ by what happened last night.” He spent two hours staring into the darkness last night before he finally managed to fall asleep, certain every sound was a Gulyas hitman coming to take him out, but Matt doesn’t need to know that. “But I’m not letting Maria take the fall for a murder she didn’t commit and you’re not leaving any of _your_ clients high and dry, so let it go, okay?” He tries a smile, not that Matt can see it. “Besides, I got a superhero out there who likes me.”

Matt snorts, but he doesn’t argue. It’s a small victory.

Foggy starts to say something, closes his mouth, then tries again. “About that...last night…”

“Mmm?”

“Were you...when we were talking, after you knocked the guy out, were you…” Foggy rubs the back of his neck, trying to find a way to say this that doesn’t sound, well, vaguely pathetic.

Karen’s voice rings out in the outer office as she walks in, back from her early-morning dentist appointment. “Morning!”

Saved by the secretary.

Matt straightens up. “Table this discussion for now?” he murmurs, and Foggy nods, knowing Matt will pick up the motion. He’ll still tell Karen he was saved by Daredevil last night; she deserves to know when the cases they’re working are dangerous. She deserves to know who Daredevil _is_ , too, but that’s not Foggy’s secret to tell, and so far Matt hasn’t caved under Foggy’s pressure.

As for Foggy’s question - well, he’s probably just imagining things. It’s for the best that he didn’t actually ask it.

*

Two nights later, he’s walking home late again when he becomes aware of someone following him. He’s not sure if it’s a sound that tips him off or motion out of the corner of his eye; he just _knows_. Maybe being around Matt and his freaky senses all the time is rubbing off on him.

As subtly as he can, he reaches into his pockets. Cell phone in one hand; newly-purchased pepper spray keychain in the other.

He glances down at his phone for a second as he taps in the code to unlock it and hears a soft thump. When he looks up, there’s someone directly in front of him.

“Gah!” he shouts. He jerks the pepper spray up, about to fire - and realizes it’s Daredevil. “Holy shit! Ma - uh, Dare - I - _what the fuck are you doing here?_ ”

Matt looks like he’s trying not to laugh, because he is a _goddamned bastard_. “My apologies, Mr. Nelson. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

 _Mr. Nelson_. Jesus Christ, Matt. “Somehow I find that hard to believe,” Foggy says, trying to sound dry even though he knows Matt can hear that his heart is still racing. “Why are you - wait. That was _you_ following me?”

Matt has the grace to at least look a _little_ sheepish. “Well, after the...incident two nights ago, I thought it might be good to keep an...keep an _eye_ on you.” A trace of amusement flickers across the lower half of his face. Right. _Daredevil_ isn’t supposed to be blind.

“Are you kidding me? Didn’t we talk about this?” Foggy asks, putting his phone and keys back in his pockets.

“Uh, no, Mr. Nelson, I don’t think _we_ discussed this at all,” Matt says.

Right. Foggy talked about this with _Matt_ , not Daredevil. And Foggy was the one who pointed out that they shouldn’t be talking about secret identity stuff while Matt’s in costume, even if Matt can probably tell whether anyone’s around to listen in.

Foggy sighs. “Fine. So...what now? Are you convinced I’m safe, or do you need to haunt me all the way back to my doorstep?”

Matt cocks his head, something Foggy is starting to realize is his way of scanning his surroundings for sensory information. “I can walk a few blocks with you.”

That...wasn’t what Foggy meant. He’d expected that Matt would follow him from the roofs or from the shadows like a big creepy weirdo, not amble down Tenth Avenue like a smaller, slightly less creepy weirdo. But hey, he probably won’t get jumped like this. “Okay,” he says.

They fall silent as they walk. Normally Foggy would be chattering away a mile a minute, but he’s not quite sure what’s safe to say when Matt is Daredevil. “Sorry,” he says finally.

“For what?”

Matt’s profile is still recognizably his - Foggy knew in his gut who the man bleeding on the floor of Matt’s apartment was that terrible night, well before he pulled the mask off - but there’s something about it in the suit that makes Foggy keep sneaking sidelong glances at him. “I feel like I should be entertaining you or something.”

Matt’s smile splits the night. “Maybe I just like your company.”

And there is, again, that playful rumble in Matt’s bass notes. Obviously Matt likes Foggy’s company - either that or the Catholic in him has led him to be even more self-flagellating than usual, since they spend pretty much all of their daylight hours together. But there’s something more than affection in his tone, something that usually only comes out when he’s drunk, or talking to a pretty girl.

Well, two can play at that game. “I bet you say that to all the lawyers you save from knifings and then stalk on their evening commutes,” Foggy says, batting the shuttlecock back across the net.

And Matt spikes it. “No,” he says. “Just the cute ones.”

Foggy actually stumbles, trips on nothing and just barely catches himself. “Uh…”

“Sorry. Was that out of line?” Matt says. “Is there a Mrs. Nelson at home?”

Is he _high?_ He knows perfectly well there’s not. Or is this whole thing just some weird way to enforce the separation between Matt and Daredevil?

Because Matt’s comments aren’t open for interpretation. This is _flirting_. Matt is _flirting_ with him.

 _Daredevil_ is flirting with him.

Matt’s waiting for a response. Grabbing him by the shoulders and demanding to know why he’s being so weird isn’t an option, so - what the hell. Foggy wouldn’t last ten seconds in the ring with Matt, but he can sure as hell match him for flirt for flirt. “Alas, no,” he says. “Not even a potential one. I am _entirely_ available.”

His heart is racing again. God, life was easier before he knew Matt could hear that.

“Huh,” Matt says. “Must be my lucky day.”

By some miracle, Foggy doesn’t choke. “It’s night,” he manages to point out.

“Even better.” Matt comes to a stop, turning to face Foggy full-on. “I’ve always found nights to be the luckiest times for me.”

He leans in close, and Foggy wonders for a heart-stopping moment if Matt is going to kiss him - but no, Matt hovers an inch away. Still smiling. “I think you can make it from here.”

Foggy blinks, startled. They’re only a block away from his apartment building. He hadn’t even noticed.

“Stay safe, Mr. Nelson,” Matt says. “I’d much rather be walking you home than saving you from ruffians.”

“Uh,” Foggy says. It’s hard to think with Matt this close.

Matt steps back, gives Foggy a jaunty little wave, and strolls off around the nearby corner. Foggy suspects that if he hurried to follow, Matt would already be out of sight.

Okay. That’s...okay.

Foggy starts moving again. He’s only a block from home, and that means he’s only a block away from a beer or three that _might_ help this all start making sense.

*

If Foggy angles his chair just right, he can look out the door of his office, past Karen, and straight into Matt’s. He can only kind of see the side of Matt’s face, but it gives him something to study: half a scruffy eyebrow; half a dark red lens from the glasses Foggy had scoured the city for so he could give Matt the perfect graduation present; one perfect cheekbone.

Matt’s listening to his screen reader, apparently totally focused. He doesn’t look like he’s on the brink of sauntering over to Foggy’s desk and asking if it hurt when Foggy fell from heaven or offering to make Foggy’s bed rock or _wow_ , Foggy needs to come up with better hypothetical lines.

But he _was_ flirting last night.

Why? Or rather, why last night, and the time before that, the night with the Gulyas kid? If Matt wants to flirt with Foggy, he’s had a decade to do it. And it’s not like he doesn’t have reason to think Foggy would be amenable, not after Foggy managed to stick his foot in it over Matt’s beauty within thirty seconds of meeting him. Even if Foggy managed to rein it in after that, even if his comments about Matt’s looks and charms and how much Foggy wants to kiss him have always had the cadence of jokes, Matt’s got to know, right? Especially with that whole heartbeat thing. He’s _got_ to know, and he’s just not interested.

Which is fine. Foggy respects that. But that doesn’t explain why Matt suddenly seems to think hitting on Foggy is an integral component of protecting him.

“You know, I can tell when you’re staring at me,” Matt says, loud enough for Foggy to hear it.

Foggy jumps, startled, then scowls in Matt’s direction. “No, you can’t. And I wasn’t.”

“You two aren’t being weird again, are you?” Karen asks, glancing back and forth between them.

“Karen, have you ever once known me to be weird?” Foggy asks.

“You’re really gonna give me a setup like that?”

“I’m a very generous employer.”

“Get back to work, Foggy,” Matt calls, an audible chuckle in his voice, and puts his earbud back in.

Karen gives Foggy a questioning look, and he shrugs, hoping it looks casual, before turning back to his own computer. If there’s a solution to the mystery that is Matt Murdock, it looks like he’s not finding it today.

*

Foggy buttons up his jacket as he leaves the precinct. He’s been running around all day - first out to Rikers to talk to Maria, who has no idea why the Gulyas family would be involved; then all the way downtown to the county clerk’s office for some paperwork; and finally back up to the precinct in Hell’s Kitchen for yet _more_ paperwork. He looks forward to the city finally joining the digital age, although at this pace it won’t be until after he’s retired.

It’s dark by the time he gets through picking up his paperwork and trading playful barbs with Brett, and Foggy shivers a little against the chill of the night air. His path leads him through the precinct parking lot, half-full of unused patrol cars. He’s weaving his way through them when someone calls out his name.

“Nelson, right?”

Foggy turns around. “Officer Thompson.” He’s young, maybe a few years younger than Foggy. It’s still weird to think there are real _cops_ younger than him - Foggy still feels like a kid half the time. He’s never spoken to Thompson before but he’s heard him testify in court and Brett’s mentioned him once or twice. Never anything good, unfortunately for Thompson.

“Heard you’re working the Giacomo case,” Thompson says.

Foggy tenses slightly. “Indeed I am.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Thompson asks.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing. Just. You know what they say about the Giacomos,” Thompson says. “The whole family’s made. Better to not get mixed up in it. Even if the Giacomo kid didn’t kill her cousin, she probably did something else, or will. She’s not worth your time.”

“Thank you for the warning, officer, but if I didn’t believe that my _eighteen-year-old_ client was innocent, I wouldn’t have taken her case,” Foggy says, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder.

“Hey, yeah, fair enough,” Thompson said, spreading his hands easily. “An honest lawyer. What are the odds?”

It’s the kind of joke that Brett, and even Foggy himself, makes all the time, but it rubs Foggy the wrong way coming out of Thompson’s mouth. “At least as good as the odds of an honest cop in Hell’s Kitchen,” he retorts, because he is a _moron_.

Thompson’s still smiling. “Everyone says you’ve got a mouth on you,” he says, and Foggy’s a little surprised that he doesn’t add “no homo” because Thompson’s so the kind of guy who _would_. “That’s gonna get you in trouble.”

“Isn’t that why we have the police?” Foggy asks. “In case of trouble?”

“Yeah,” Thompson says. He rests his hands on his hip - shit, no, _not_ his hip. His holster. And when did he get so close? “So when a police officer suggests that you stay away from a case, I’d take it pretty seriously if I were you.”

“Sounds like good advice,” Foggy says. His heart is pounding. This would be a great time for Matt to come swinging in - but of course _wanted vigilante Daredevil_ isn’t going to be hanging out around the police precinct.

And Foggy’s a bit of a shit, honestly, and he doesn’t like being bullied, so even though he knows it’s stupid, he smiles big and adds, “Too bad I’m not that smart.”

Thompson takes another step closer, and he’s not smiling anymore. “Listen, Nelson - ”

“Hey, Foggy!”

They both freeze. Brett’s coming towards them, rubbing his hands together against the cold. “Good, you’re still here,” he says. “I forgot, my mom wanted me to invite you over to dinner on Saturday. Murdock can come too, if he wants.” He glances at Thompson, whose hand has dropped to hang in the air, a neutral position. “Everything okay out here?”

“Yeah, we were just chatting,” Thompson says. “I’ll see you around, Nelson.”

“Yeah,” Foggy echoes, a little weakly.

He and Brett both watch as Thompson heads back to the building. “You okay?” Brett asks.

“Fine,” Foggy says. “He just wanted to talk about the Giacomo murder.”

“Really.” Brett gives him a knowing look. “What does he care?”

Foggy shrugs. It’s either let bravado carry him or fall weeping on Brett’s manly shoulder, and he thinks the former’s a better look on him. Thompson probably _wouldn’t_ have done anything right outside of the precinct like this, but he certainly wanted Foggy to think he would. “No idea. How’d you know I was still out here, anyway?”

Brett points up. “The idiot decided to strong-arm you directly under a security camera.”

Well. At least Foggy’s new enemy in the police department is not a particularly savvy one.

“Hey,” Brett goes on. “Be careful, okay? Thompson’s stupid but he’s mean, and just because I don’t have anything on him yet doesn’t mean he’s clean.”

“I’m always careful,” Foggy says.

“You’re full of shit,” Brett says, but he claps a hand on Foggy’s shoulder and gives him a rare smile.

Foggy smiles back. It’s nice to know Foggy’s got a couple friends looking out for him, even if one won’t admit it and the other’s a lunatic in red pajamas.

He still walks home _fast_ , though, and locks all four locks when he gets inside his apartment.

One nerve-settling drink later, he picks up the phone he’s been staring at for twenty minutes and texts Matt: _That cop Thompson leaned on me at the precinct tonight. Think he’s connected to one of the G families. Stay safe._ He doesn’t want Matt to worry about him, and he _really_ doesn’t want Matt fussing over him like a mama bear - he’s terrible at the mama bear act, he should really leave it to Foggy - but he also doesn’t want Matt to maybe trust a cop he shouldn’t, in or out of the Daredevil suit.

He gets a text back a few minutes later: _You okay?_

_Fine. Brett was there. Just be careful._

There’s no answer. Foggy tries not to catastrophize all the reasons that might be the case. Matt’s answering his regular phone - there's no point in Foggy texting the burner, it can’t read the texts to Matt - which means he’s not suited up. Not yet, anyway.

He nukes an unsatisfying frozen burrito for dinner, manages half of it, and throws the rest out. Stares at the TV without really watching it. Gives up and gets ready for bed.

He’s just turning down the covers when he hears a noise on his fire escape, and his heart leaps into his throat. His mother didn’t want him taking an apartment with a fire escape outside the bedroom window. At the time he’d scoffed; the window has locks, after all, and he’d only be marginally safer with a crazed window-entering axe murderer in the living room as opposed to the bedroom. Now he thinks she might have had a point.

He grabs for his phone - to call the police or Matt or chuck at the intruder’s head, he’s not sure - when whoever’s on the fire escape… _knocks_.

So. _Probably_ not an axe murderer, then.

He marches over to the window and yanks the curtain back. Sure enough, there’s Matt. No, there's _Daredevil_.

Foggy rolls his eyes, unlocks the window, and pushes it up. “What are you _doing?_ ”

“Just wanted to make sure that you were okay, Mr. Nelson,” Matt says. His voice is low and very dark. “I don’t like hearing that you’ve been threatened.”

“You could have called,” Foggy points out. “Amazing what they can do with phone technology these days. Games, cameras, and you can even ask someone a question and get an answer right away.”

“I don’t…” Matt makes a soft noise and looks down. “I wanted to see for myself.”

Foggy’s _pretty_ sure no one’s listening in on their conversation _on his fire escape_. “Matt, I _know_ you’re blind…” he starts to say, then notices that Matt’s tugging one of his gloves off. “What’s...what are you…”

Matt puts his bare hand on Foggy’s throat.

Foggy goes absolutely still. Not because he’s scared. He trusts Matt with his life, and it’s not that kind of touch anyway; Matt’s thumb is next to his fingers, not gripping, and the touch is light. His fingertips are resting on Foggy’s pulse point.

Which defeats the purpose, because it’s going _through the roof_ now. No, scared isn’t what he is. “Matt…” he tries.

“Shhh,” Matt says. “Not when I’m in the suit.”

It’s stupid - almost as stupid as the fact that Foggy flushes hot when he says it. “Come on…” he protests a little weakly, and then falls silent as Matt steps in a little closer, right into Foggy’s personal space. They’re still on opposite sides of the window, but it feels as intimate as anything they’ve ever done.

Matt breathes in deep; Foggy watches his nostrils flare, his chest expand, and wonders what he smells like. Hopefully not _too_ much like sweat and frozen burrito.

Matt’s mouth twitches. “Are you nervous, Mr. Nelson?”

Foggy scowls. “ _No_.” Yes. “Are you done? Have you gotten whatever it is you hope to get out of - ”

Matt’s fingers skim up over Foggy’s jaw and land on his mouth. Foggy freezes again.

“Keep talking,” Matt whispers.

“I,” Foggy tries, and then, “you,” and then, “what exactly are we doing here?” He can feel Matt’s fingers tracing his lips as they move. Matt’s face in the mask gives nothing away.

“Do you want me to stop?” Matt asks. His fingers slide off Foggy’s mouth, over his cheekbone, and get lost in his hair.

Foggy swallows. “No,” he says, and it’s barely audible, but he knows Matt can hear it.

Matt’s hand curves around his skull. He’s still taking those deep breaths, like he could inhale Foggy if he just tries hard enough. Like Foggy’s oxygen. “You’re not hurt,” he says.

“No,” Foggy agrees.

“But you were scared.”

Foggy doesn’t know if Matt can _sense_ that, somehow, or if he’s just guessing. Either way he’s right - but Foggy’s not about to admit it. “I’m all right.”

Matt’s mouth tenses like something pains him, and he takes another step towards Foggy, until his boots have got to be butting up against the outside of the building. “I will never let anything happen to you. You know that, right?” His head tips closer, so close his forehead’s practically touching Foggy’s. Foggy wonders if the mask would be cool to the touch, or if Matt’s body heat radiates out enough to warm it. “ _Never_.”

Foggy’s throat is dry. He licks his lips. “I know,” he says.

Matt gives him a faint smile - he’s so close Foggy practically has to go cross-eyed to see it - and take another breath...and then suddenly pulls back, head turned into the wind. If he could perk his ears like a dog, Foggy’s sure they’d be sky-high.

“What?” Foggy asks, and then realizes. “Someone needs help?”

“I don’t…” Matt’s hand drops from Foggy’s hair, but he doesn’t put his glove back on.

“Go,” Foggy says. The spell’s broken, anyway, and it’s freezing with the window open. He wraps his arms around himself as if it’ll do any good. “I’ll see you in the of-- ” No. He’ll see _Matt_ in the office. “I’ll see you around.”

Matt gives him one last smile as he pulls his glove on. “You can count on that, Mr. Nelson,” he says, and then he springs to the railing of the fire escape, and clambers up until he’s out of sight even when Foggy cranes his neck out the window to look.

“Stay safe,” Foggy calls after him - not loud, but he knows Matt’ll hear it. He closes the window, but the chill is in his bedroom now, and even under the blankets it takes a while for him to get warm enough to sleep.

When he does, he dreams of red leather.

*

“Hey, Karen?”

“Mm?” Karen doesn’t look up from the budget spreadsheet she’s currently scowling at, even when Foggy perches on her desk. It’s nine in the morning and Matt doesn’t tend to make it in until ten, usually looking rumpled and exhausted. It used to make Foggy fiercely jealous, when he thought Matt was making a tour of every beautiful woman’s bed in Manhattan. Now it just makes him worry.

“You remember when Daredevil saved you?” he asks. “You know, back when we first met, when he was rocking the black pajamas?”

“That’s a little hard to forget, Foggy,” Karen says, frowns deeper, and adjusts an Excel formula.

“Did he, uh.” Foggy forces his shoulders down. “Did he, like...flirt with you?”

 _Now_ she looks up. “What?”

Foggy’s pretty sure his blush is visible from space. “You know, was he all business, all ‘hrn’ and ‘grr’ and ‘ _justice_ ,’ or was he...did he…”

“Flirt,” Karen says. “Did he...Foggy, we were both _bleeding_ in the _rain_ next to a _murderer_. No, he didn’t _flirt_ with me! I mean, come on, you said you met him, when he gave you the stuff to take down Fisk - did he flirt with _you?_ ” Her eyes widen. “Oh my God, _did_ he flirt with you?”

“No!” Foggy says too quickly. It’s almost, sort of, not a lie. He wouldn’t really classify last night as _flirting_ , anyway. More like...well, more like foreplay. But that can’t possibly be the right word, either.

“He _did!_ ” Karen concludes. She looks absolutely delighted, damn her eyes. “Oh my god, this is amazing. This is hilarious. Are you going to hyphenate? Franklin Nelson-Devil.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, and starts to head back to his office.

She gasps. “Oh no. What does _Matt_ think?”

He freezes. “What. Uh. What do you mean, what does Matt think, why would Matt think anything about, uh, about Daredevil?” Smooth, Nelson.

“I think Matt would think a _lot_ of things about you leaving him to run off with a sexy vigilante,” Karen says, raising an eyebrow.

Foggy’s laugh is a little too loud. “Yeah. Okay. Karen, I know Matt and I might _seem_ married, but we’re just…” Nighttime fire escape face-touching buddies, apparently. Then he catches himself. “And I’m _not_ running off with Daredevil!”

Karen’s eyebrow remains firmly raised. Also, she looks about two seconds away from laughing at him.

“Shut up. You’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me, I’m the only one who knows how to bill your clients.”

“Fired! And no, I will not be a reference for you.” Foggy closes the door to his office, but he can still hear Karen’s laughter.

*

Matt comes in a little before ten and acts like everything’s normal. Foggy spills coffee on himself three separate times when Matt speaks to him.

*

He agonizes for over an hour before calling Claire that night. He only has her number for emergencies, and even then Matt the world-class compartmentalizer didn’t want to give it to him; he stole it off the received calls log on Matt’s burner when he was over at Matt’s a couple months ago.

He did _tell_ Matt, after the fact. He’s not a total jerk.

He also texted Claire after he’d left Matt’s that night: _Hey, this is F, M’s friend. No need to text back but I thought it’d be good to have each other’s numbers for emergencies._

Ten minutes later she’d responded: _Good idea, thanks. How pissed is he?_

Foggy likes Claire a lot.

They don’t talk frequently, just occasional heads-up over the physical state of their favorite vigilante moron, but Foggy feels unsettled enough that he finally picks up the phone and dials.

“Foggy?” Claire says when she answers. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s fine,” Foggy says quickly. “I mean. Everything’s fine. I’m not catching you on shift, am I?”

“No, I’m home. What’s up?”

“Uh.” Now that he has her on the phone, this feels even more excruciatingly awkward than talking to Karen about it. “It’s about Matt.”

“I figured,” she says wryly. “Either that or you were calling to see if I can diagnose strep throat or something over the phone and I was about to hang up on you.”

Foggy’s laugh probably comes out a bit too high-pitched. “Ha! No. I. No. I was just wondering if…” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Matt’s been acting a bit strange lately, and I was wondering if...does he act… _different_ with you? Like, when he’s in the mask versus when he’s not?”

“Different how?”

And that’s the question Foggy doesn’t want to answer. “More, uh. Aggressive?”

“Like, violent?” Claire asks. She sounds slightly alarmed.

“No, no, nothing like that...I mean, he’s violent with criminals, yeah, but he would _never_...he didn’t...no,” Foggy says. “Um. He. Is he. Does he.” Oh, the hell with it. “Does he flirt with you more when he’s in the suit.”

There’s a very long silence on the other end of the line. “Uh...not really?” Claire says. “I mean, he’s usually pretty, uh. He’s kind of flirty in general?” Right, of course he is, Claire’s a beautiful woman and Matt is _incorrigible_. “But it’s the same amount no matter what he’s wearing. Or how much he’s bleeding.”

Foggy makes some kind of noise even _he_ can’t describe, a muffled, tragic kind of snort into his hands.

“Does he...flirt with _you_ more when he’s in the suit?” Claire asks, and there’s something in her tone that suddenly reminds Foggy that, oh yeah, she and Matt had an actual _thing_. Which makes Foggy a _total_ asshole.

“...No?”

“Foggy.”

“Okay, yes.” He sighs. “Sorry. “I didn’t think...I didn’t mean to make this weird for you.”

“Yeah, it would suck if a conversation with the best friend of the guy who keeps climbing through my window half dead so I can stitch him up got _weird_.” Well, she doesn’t sound heartbroken, so that’s something. “Look, why don’t you just ask him what’s going on?”

Because there’s no graceful way to bring it up in conversation. Because Matt might jump out the window to evade the question.

Because Matt might _stop_.

“Yeah,” Foggy says. “You’re right. I should probably...do that. Talk to him. I’m...sorry, Claire.”

Now it’s her turn to sigh. “I was the one who called it off with him. You’re not...no one’s the bad guy here.”

“I’m not even sure there’s a ‘here,’ here,” he admits.

“Fair enough,” she says. “But hey. Listen. What Matt does...it doesn’t leave a lot of room for good things, you know? If you...I mean.” She pauses. “Don’t waste it, is all I’m saying.”

“Yeah,” he says, and “thanks, Claire,” and hangs up.

Then he sits with his head in his hands for a very long time.

* 

He’s taken to carrying his pepper spray keychain in his hand when he walks home, just to save himself the step of taking it out of his pocket. It doesn’t do him a lot of good, because when a voice behind him says, “Please don’t use that on me,” he just yelps and drops it.

“Sorry,” Matt - well, Daredevil - says as Foggy whirls around, not sounding one bit sorry. He’s even smirking, the bastard. "Didn't mean to startle you."

"You know, lying does not become you," Foggy says to cover the way his heart is still racing as he picks up the keychain. Even though he knows Matt can still hear it. “You love it. Jumping out of the shadows. Sproinging around on fire escapes.”

“Sproinging?”

“You sproing. Don’t even pretend that you don’t.” Foggy pockets his keychain; he’s got a big strong superhero to protect him now. “Here to escort me home again, Mr. Devil?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“My very own gentleman caller. Mother will be so pleased.”

Matt laughs, and that nearly ruins it. He might drop down into his Phantom of the Opera voice when he’s suited up, but his laugh is still pure Matt, and Foggy can’t keep up the playful banter if Matt’s going to keep poking at the tender parts of his heart like that.

But then Matt _bows_ , and gestures in the direction Foggy was walking. “Shall we?”

And, well, it’s not like Foggy’s ever been able to refuse Matt anything _before_.

“So,” he says, as they head towards his block, “any leads on why the Gulyases sent someone to perforate me?”

Matt tenses, visible even in the suit, and Foggy’s not sure whether it’s because he’s brought up something serious instead of flirting, or because he’s joking about his own near-death experience. Maybe both.

“I’ve been…asking around,” Matt says, with a delicate pause before the euphemism. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think that kid was hired to kill you. Just to rough you up a bit. Scare you.” His smile is a terror. “They say he woke up screaming in the hospital, so I guess we know who _really_ wound up scared.”

“Well, um, kudos?” Foggy says. “I mean, yeah, I guess it’s good that they’re not actually trying to off me. I suppose it would look a _titch_ suspicious if Maria’s lawyer turned up dead. Plus my partner would nail their asses to the wall.” He tosses Matt a grin, even if it’s mostly a wasted gesture.

But Matt’s jaw is working visibly, and his fists are clenched. “I...you…” He stops, starts again. “I don’t think your partner would be good for much of anything if you turned up dead. Maybe ever.”

And that’s too much, right there; Foggy can’t bear the tension in Matt’s frame or the rawness of his voice. “Well,” he says, but it comes out more choked than he wanted it to, “good thing I’ve got you looking out for me.”

Matt opens his mouth - then freezes. Cocks his head into the wind, then grabs Foggy and hauls him around a corner.

“What are you - ”

“Someone’s coming,” Matt says, voice low. “You shouldn’t be seen with me. It’s already too widely known that Nelson and Murdock is connected with Daredevil.”

“ _You’re_ the one - ” Foggy starts.

“Shhh!”

Foggy lowers his voice to a hiss. “ _You’re_ the one who keeps offering to carry my books home from school.”

“Shut up!” The facade of the building they’re next to offers a little alcove and Matt pulls Foggy into it by his lapels; Matt’s back in the corner, Foggy blocking him in. “What color is your coat?”

“What?”

“Shhh!” Matt hisses again, and puts a finger on Foggy’s mouth to shush him. The leather is cool against Foggy’s lips, but his breath, close enough to feel against Foggy’s jaw, is warm.

“You just _asked_ me - ”

“ _Whisper!_ ”

Foggy lets out a long-suffering - but quiet - sigh. “Gray,” he whispers. “Dark gray.”

“Okay.”

“What?”

“It won’t show too much in the dark,” Matt explains. “Though my suit would show less.”

“Well, next time _you_ can be on top,” Foggy whispers. Catches himself. Flushes hot. “I mean, the outside. I mean. You _know_ what I mean.”

Matt’s suit might not show in the dark, but his smirk _absolutely_ does. Smirking and leather-clad and Foggy’s got him pinned into a corner and Jesus, if he could go back in time and tell his hopelessly infatuated nineteen-year-old self about this moment...well, he probably would’ve had a heart attack and not lived to see twenty.

“Shut up,” Foggy whispers for good measure, even though Matt hasn't said anything. Matt just grins at him. They’re close enough that Foggy can feel Matt’s chest expanding when he breathes. He’s got to get out of here before he embarrasses himself beyond repair. “Are they gone?”

Matt tilts his head, listening. “Yeah,” he says.

Foggy starts to move away.

Matt hooks a hand back in his lapel, pulls him in close, and kisses him.

“Mmph,” Foggy says against Matt’s lips, a stunned, muffled sound. In his defense, though, _Matt is kissing him_ , hot and fast and over before Foggy can do anything about it. He slips out from between Foggy and the wall and Foggy makes a shaky, uncertain half-turn to face him again.

“Two blocks,” Matt says, and it takes Foggy a minute to realize he’s talking about the distance from here to Foggy’s home. “You can make it from here, right?”

Foggy searches for his voice. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, I can...I can.”

“Good.” Matt licks his lips - oh God, Foggy lived to twenty but he might not make it to thirty at this rate - and steps back. “Stay safe, Mr. Nelson.”

He slips around the corner, back the way they came. This time, Foggy makes himself follow, once his legs are working again; makes himself look.

But Matt’s already gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Ten years.

Matt Murdock has been Foggy’s best friend for _ten years_.

And Foggy has been good. He’s been _smart_. He dates other people, and he doesn’t dwell on _Matt_ dating other people - much - and he keeps his eyes averted from that quite frankly _ridiculous_ ass when it presents itself. He neither moons, nor pines, nor covets.

Sure, he makes the occasional joke about it, but for the most part he is very, very good at pretending that his feelings for the best friend he’s ever known in this world - who also happens to be the most beautiful human being he’s ever encountered, and to all appearances straight as a goddamn arrow - are one hundred percent platonic. Even to himself. Even when Matt’s _got_ to know, because if he knew and never did anything about it...well, there was Foggy’s answer right there, wasn’t it?

Until last night, when Matt planted a wet one on him before becoming one with the night.

Until last night, when Foggy lay awake until close to sunrise, sure that every faint noise from the direction of his fire escape was Matt stopping by to...well, Foggy wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t sleep for imagining it. Even though Matt never actually showed.

So now he’s on his way to the office, where he is _partners_ with his _best friend who kissed him last night_ and oh God, maybe he should have taken a sick day. Maybe he should have taken a sick _week_. Maybe he should have changed his name and moved to Bolivia to raise...whatever kind of animals they raise in Bolivia.

Maybe he should have gone to _Matt’s_ and made him actually _explain_ himself.

But no, now he’s just going to have to deal with seeing Matt at the office, with Karen there, and they won’t be able to talk about it, and...and…

...and there are cops in front of the office.

Four of them, two squad cars pulled up in front. Karen’s talking to one of the cops, her face pale and frightened, and there’s a handful of rubberneckers standing around.

“Foggy!” Karen says when she sees him, and runs to hug him. She’s trembling, and he feels sick as he pulls her close. Did someone hurt her? Was it the Giacomo case? God, he’ll never forgive himself if this stupid case spills over into her life, not after all she’s already been through in the past year.

“Karen, what happened?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

She nods against his shirtfront. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m just...shaken, I guess, and I told the cops everything but they keep asking me to tell them _again_ , and I just…”

“Yeah,” he says, and squeezes her tighter. She doesn’t like cops, aside from Brett, really. Foggy figures if he was wrongfully arrested and then nearly strangled to death while in police custody, he wouldn’t be a huge fan of the boys in blue either. “I’ll talk to them, but...what _happened?_ ”

“Oh Foggy, it's the office,” she says.

It doesn't really make sense until he goes upstairs, even though Karen warns him before he does. The glass on their door is shattered, as is their coffee pot and all their lightbulbs. Their ancient printer is smashed. Their filing cabinets have been dumped out and the contents are scattered everywhere, many of them torn and crumpled. Foggy suspects that if he looks through them, he'll find the Giacomo files missing.

Thank God none of them keep their laptops at the office. Thank God none of them were here. Still, Foggy's heart thumps unpleasantly as he takes in the destruction.

“Call Matt,” he tells Karen.

He spends the time waiting telling the cops what little he knows; namely, that he's already been threatened over one of their current cases and this is probably related. He's not sure how much he should trust the cops when Brett's not there, but neither is Thompson, and Foggy hasn't _entirely_ given up on the system yet.

Matt arrives twenty minutes later. He goes pale as he stands in their wrecked offices, as Foggy describes the extent of the damage, both for appearances and because he's not sure how much Matt can actually pick up. Foggy watches Matt’s hands twist on the handle of his cane, the knuckles raw and red. Last night’s stolen kiss seems light years away.

The rest of the day is spent giving endless, repetitive statements to the cops and, once the detectives let them, starting to put their office back in order. Matt fetches coffee while Foggy sweeps up broken glass. Karen bursts into tears as she puts the smaller pieces of the printer in the garbage and says something about Ben; when Matt comes back she's sobbing into Foggy's shoulder while he rubs her back.

Matt barely speaks. He can't help file papers, Foggy knows, not without giving his senses away, and there's too much upheaval in the office to do regular work. Mostly, he broods.

They order a pizza for lunch, but no one has much of an appetite. Matt picks at the crust of his slice before saying, “I think you should drop the case.”

“No!” says Foggy - and Karen.

Foggy looks at her in surprise. She's still blotchy around the nose and eyes, but she’s also sporting the now-familiar set to her jaw that says that she's going into full-on Stubborn Karen mode.

Maybe it's because Matt can't see it that he tries to argue. “What if one of you - if one of us had been here?” he asks.

“Obviously they broke in at like three in the morning to avoid exactly that,” she points out. “They wanted to scare us, not hurt us.”

“They sent someone after Foggy _with a knife_.”

“So we’ll be careful,” she says. “We won't wander around alone late at night, we’ll check in with each other.” He opens his mouth and she cuts him off. “Matt, if we drop the case, every dickhead who wants to lean on us from now on will know that all they have to do is tear up the office, and I am _not_ redoing these files every time that happens. Besides, that girl’s innocent. You _know_ she is.”

“You've been crying all morning,” Matt points out softly.

“Yes, I have,” she snaps, tucking her hair behind her ears like she's going to war. “So Foggy had better get his ass in the courtroom when the time comes and make them pay for it.”

Matt turns his head in Foggy's direction. He looks a little helpless, which is rich because the truth is, he and Karen are exactly the same. Scare Foggy and all he wants to do is drink himself under the bar at Josie’s and make jokes until it goes away. Scare Matt or Karen and they come back with guns a-blazing.

It's probably why Foggy adores Karen so much. Bad habits learned from Matt and all that.

“Foggy?” Matt asks.

Foggy shrugs. “I'm shrugging, buddy. I'm not gonna fight with Karen on this, and if you could see the look on her face, you wouldn't either.”

Oddly, it's _that_ that makes Karen's defiance crumble a bit. “I mean, it's up to you, of course,” she says. “You're the one they're most likely to...I don't want you getting hurt.”

“Trust me, I don't want me getting hurt either,” Foggy says. “But sticking with the case is the right thing to do.”

It’s cheating, really, because he _knows_ it’s the one thing that’ll work on Matt without fail. Sure enough, Matt goes all bristly and wrinkle-browed, huffing a few frustrated breaths through his nose before giving up on a sigh.

“ _Fine_ ,” he says. “But Karen’s right. Don’t go out at night, report anything suspicious, and check in with each other.”

The skeptical arch of Karen’s eyebrow is a thing of beauty. “What about you, tough guy?”

Now that Foggy’s watching for it, Matt really is a terrible liar. “I’ll check in with Foggy,” he says.

But it works. “He’s just going to use it as an excuse to fuss at you,” Karen tells Foggy.

“Oh, believe me, Karen, you have no _idea_ how overprotective Matt can get,” Foggy says, and he doesn’t _mean_ to make his voice heavy with significance, but, well, there it is.

And Matt’s cheeks go pink.

_Well._

*

They spend the afternoon straightening up the office in pensive near-silence and leave early, well before sundown. Matt insists on walking Karen home, and Foggy’s not sure if it’s part of their new “no one wanders off on their own” pact or just an excuse to avoid Foggy. Then he tells himself he’s being paranoid. Then he tells himself it’s not paranoia if they’re really out to kiss you out of nowhere and vanish into the shadows.

Okay. Enough. Stop thinking about Matt.

He proceeds to think relentlessly about Matt as he puts together a sad dinner of scrambled eggs and two leftover dumplings, the only food left in his fridge. He thinks about Matt as he eats it, as he washes the plate and the fork and the pan and throws out the aluminum takeout container the dumplings came in. He thinks about Matt as he opens up his laptop to try to get some work done - on a case that _isn’t_ Maria Giacomo’s, because he can’t deal with the stress right now - and realizes that everything he needs is back at the office.

The sun’s going down. The office is a crime scene. He shouldn’t.

But it’s not _that_ late, and why would they come back to the office when it’s still a wreck?

It’s seven blocks away. He’ll run over, grab the files, and come right back. He’ll even text Matt beforehand, like he promised - although from the look on Matt’s face when they left the office, he dropped Karen off on her doorstep and scampered home to suit up and put the hurt on the Gulyases. Or the Giacomos. Or _anyone_.

Foggy taps out a text and heads out, pepper spray in hand. He hasn’t heard from Matt by the time he reaches the office, which means he was probably right and Matt’s out without his phone. Foggy’ll have hell to pay for it when Matt _does_ hear that text, but Matt’s hardly one to talk about being reckless.

Reckless. For walking seven blocks in his own neighborhood. _God._

He lets himself into the office. They haven’t organized the files yet, not really, but they’ve at least shoved everything into a relevant folder and stacked them on the conference room table, so it’s easy enough for Foggy to work through the stack and find the one he needs.

He’s squinting at Karen’s loopy script in the light from the one pathetic bulb over the table when he hears a window scrape open in the front office.

_Shit._

Fingers tight on his keychain, he’s moving away from the door and about to dial 911 on his cell when a very familiar, _very_ angry voice says: “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He blows out a sigh of relief and puts his phone and keychain on the table. He’s in trouble, but not the kind he was afraid of.

“What are _you_ doing here?” he asks, moving into the main office. Matt is standing in front of the window, suited up, visibly tense. “I thought you’d be out tracking down whoever did this.” Foggy gestures at the office, even though out in the front room it looks pretty close to back to normal.

“I came here to get a lead,” Matt says, and wow, he is _angry_. “A distinctive smell, any kind of clue that could...Foggy, what the fuck were you _thinking?_ ”

It’s the first time he’s called Foggy by his first name while wearing the suit. Foggy swallows around his surprise. “I just needed to pick up some files, it’s barely past seven…”

“We _just_ talked about not going out alone after dark and letting people know where you were!”

“I texted you!”

“You _knew_ I wouldn’t get that message, you _knew_ I was suiting up!”

“Okay, yes, fine, I knew!” Foggy snaps. He’s so tired of this. It’s been an awful day on no sleep and he can’t deal with a hypocritical lecture from Matt on staying safe after all of Matt’s _other_ bizarre behavior over the past few days. “I just wanted to come to my own fucking office and get a fucking file, okay? I didn’t think I needed a police escort and a release form signed in triplicate for that.”

He turns and heads back into the conference room to get his file. Matt follows. “You literally _promised_ me, not six hours ago, that you would be _careful_ \- !”

Foggy turns, and whoa, Matt’s closer than he thought. “Oh, are we admitting who you are right now? Not playing the Scarlet Pimpernel game tonight?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“There’s nothing more to _say_ about the subject!” Foggy says. “What are you gonna do, ground me?” He prods Matt in the chest. The leather is cool and unyielding. “Come on, Matty. Seriously. What are you gonna do?”

Matt kisses him, hard.

Foggy is still mad, and if anyone asks later, he will say for the record that he is _tabling_ that anger when he kisses Matt back. Or, okay, maybe he’s channeling some of it into the kiss; into the way he steps into Matt’s space; into the rough noise he makes into Matt’s mouth; into the way his fingers dig into Matt’s, holy crap, _rock hard_ biceps.

Matt’s hands are cupping Foggy’s face, the leather on his fingers snagging uncomfortably in Foggy’s hair. He tastes like too much coffee and he kisses Foggy like he couldn’t stop himself if he tried and Foggy is very sure that all the Giacomos and the Gulyases in the world couldn’t pry him off of Matt at this very moment.

They’re moving; Foggy doesn’t quite realize it until the conference room table butts up against, well, his butt. He slides his hands up to Matt’s neck, and Matt pulls off to rest his forehead against Foggy’s, panting ragged against his face. “Foggy,” he huffs. “Foggy, I can’t…”

“Yeah,” Foggy says, like that’s an answer.

Matt _groans_ , holy _shit_ , and then his mouth is on Foggy’s _neck_ and Foggy is going to die, right here in their conference room, after all of Matt’s fussing at him it’s Matt’s own stupid sexy mouth that’s going to kill him. There’s a horn poking his jaw and the pointy bit at the end of Matt’s nose is scratching him and Foggy hopes they’ll leave marks, because without them he’ll never be able to believe that this really happened.

“Come here,” he manages, and hauls Matt’s head back up for another searing kiss, and God, what it does to Foggy’s heart that Matt comes so willingly.

He's pressed against the table now, trapped between it and Matt’s hard, lean body. He pushes back, not to get away, just to feel Matt against him more firmly, and Matt groans again, the sound vibrating against Foggy's tongue. “Fuck,” Foggy breathes, and then, before he can stop himself, “ _Matt_.”

Matt pulls away, takes his mouth and hands off of Foggy and shit, shit, _shit_ , Foggy shouldn't have used Matt’s name, he's ruined whatever this is.

But Matt doesn't go far. He keeps Foggy pinned between himself and the table as he leans back just far enough to tug his gloves off - oh God, with his _teeth_. They fall to the floor and then Matt’s hands are back on Foggy, hot on his skin without the gloves in the way.

“Foggy,” he pants, mouthing at his jaw. “ _Foggy_ , I can't…I can't let you get hurt. Don't you understand? I can't _lose_ you.”

Foggy's heart constricts so tightly it _hurts_ , even though he knows rationally it's psychosomatic. He wonders what it sounds like to Matt.

“You could never,” he manages, a little choked. “Never. You're stuck with me, Murdock.”

Matt lets out a low noise that Foggy feels _in his spine_ and captures Foggy’s mouth again. His hands slide down to Foggy's hips, bruisingly tight, and one of his thighs slots between Foggy's, and - oh. _Oh_.

Foggy's not really sure what to do with his own obvious arousal right now, but Matt doesn't seem to be plagued by similar indecision. He grinds his thigh against Foggy's erection, using his grip on Foggy's hips to pull him even _closer_ , his mouth still hot on Foggy's. “This okay?” he asks between haphazard kisses, like this isn't every furtive, lustful dream of Foggy's secret heart.

Foggy answers by sliding his hands down Matt’s spine to grab a double handful of the ass that's been a starring player in his fantasies since he was a _teenager_. He'd prefer to not be gripping it through kevlar, but it's still possibly the most magnificent thing he's ever gotten his hands on. “ _Matt_.”

Matt _shudders_ in his arms, holy _crap_ , and grinds his hips into Foggy's, and the suit doesn't give much away but he's definitely hard. He's hard for Foggy, _Foggy_ did that, and for a moment he's unspeakably grateful to the Gulyases for this gift they almost certainly never intended to give him.

It's ridiculous. They're not even _undressed_ ; hell, Matt’s still wearing his _mask_. He does manage to get his hands inside Foggy's coat and up under his shirt, hot where they palm his sides, and the way he touches that little sweep of skin like he can't get enough somehow feels more exposed, more intimate, than anything Foggy's ever done.

Still, they should stop; they should slow down long enough to get to one of their apartments, where Foggy can get Matt properly naked, as God intended. Or at least long enough to get their _pants_ undone. But that would require letting go of Matt, and right now that doesn't feel like something Foggy can do.

Especially since letting go might mean Matt rethinking this.

Instead, he hauls Matt even _closer_ , nips at that impossibly plush lower lip, and grinds his thigh deliberately between Matt’s legs. He's not sure how effective it'll be through however many layers of kevlar Matt’s got on - not to mention he hopes to God Matt’s wearing a cup - but Matt lets out a choked, shuddering gasp and curves into Foggy, and Foggy suddenly remembers that sound and smell weren't the only ones of Matt’s senses to get a boost in that accident.

“Good?” he asks, and can't hide the chuckle in his voice.

Matt sucks in a ragged breath and rubs the little bit of his face that the mask doesn’t cover against Foggy’s jaw. Foggy’ll have beard burn later but right now he doesn’t give one tenth of a shit. “ _Foggy_ ,” Matt says, and “ _please_.”

And when has Foggy ever been able to deny Matt anything?

He does it again, rubbing against Matt’s dick though the suit, grinding up against him in the process. The friction’s incredible but it’s secondary to little _noises_ Matt makes, the pants and sighs and, shit, _growls_ he lets out as he works himself on Foggy’s thigh. “Foggy,” he gasps again. “I need...I want…”

“Yeah,” Foggy says, inanely, adoringly. “Yeah, I got you, buddy, _fuck_ , I’m here.”

“I can’t...Foggy...fuck, you smell so _good_ ,” and yes, that is definitely Matt rubbing his nose beneath Foggy’s ear, and it shouldn’t be hot, but God, it really fucking is.

Foggy licks his lips. “Yeah?” he says, and Matt nods desperately into his neck, hips still working against him. “What do I smell like?”

And _that’s_ Matt pressing a smile to his throat. “Like you want me.”

“I really fucking do,” Foggy admits, and Matt shudders hard against him. _Well_. “You like that? You can feel it, can’t you? How hard I am for you? You can _smell_ it.” He kneads his fingers into the meat of Matt’s ass as it flexes with every thrust. It should feel weird, maybe, to be talking to _Matt_ like this, but it just feels good - and it’s _working_. “Can you _taste_ it?”

Matt sobs something that might be a yes and his hips move faster. He’s clinging to Foggy now, shoving him into the table, face pressed to his throat, and Foggy leans his head back, away from Matt’s. “Kiss me,” he demands.

Matt lets out another sob and obeys, landing half on Foggy’s chin before readjusting, sloppy and desperate. He’s losing his rhythm, hips stuttering against Foggy. Foggy digs his fingers in harder and rumbles “Come on, Matty” against Matt’s mouth - and Matt lets out a hoarse cry, head dropping back as his hips jerk forward.

It’s the most beautiful thing Foggy’s ever seen.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “Did you just…?” even though he _knows_ the answer, even _he_ can smell it now.

Matt’s trembling as he pulls back and Foggy’s heart clenches with worry - but Matt only goes far enough to slip a hand between them and drop his head on Foggy’s shoulder. “Foggy,” he mumbles against Foggy’s pulse point as he palms him through his jeans. “Foggy, c’mon. Wanna _feel_ you.”

_Fuck._ Foggy gasps and clutches at Matt’s back. It’s too fast, too rough, and it’s through his _jeans_ which isn’t the most comfortable way he’s ever been jacked off, but it’s _Matt_ and Matt’s biting at his jaw now and their conference room smells like Matt’s come and sweat, and yeah, _fuck_ , this is working for him.

“ _Please_ , Foggy,” Matt says, like he _needs_ it, and really, it shouldn’t surprise Foggy that _that’s_ what pushes him over the edge.

Matt strokes him through the aftershocks, murmuring so low Foggy can’t make it out, the smooth coolness of his mask against Foggy’s forehead. Foggy leans back against the table, accepts Matt’s weight on him, and tries to steady his breathing. That...that sure did just happen.

“Hey,” he says, and stills Matt’s hand by touching his wrist. Stills Matt’s _everything_ , really, because Matt freezes. Foggy wraps his fingers around Matt’s wrist before Matt can pull away, brings Matt’s hand up to his mouth and kisses his bruised knuckles like he wants to every day. “Um. You okay?”

Matt licks his lips. “Foggy, I - ”

Foggy’s phone rings.

Foggy jumps, and Matt goes even more rigid. “I’ll let it go to voicemail,” Foggy says hastily, as if they can somehow get the mood back even with his phone vibrating in his pocket and his ringtone shrilling through the air.

Matt shakes his head. “It could be Karen.”

“Matt - ”

But Matt’s already disentangling himself, stepping back out of Foggy’s arms. “Check it.”

Foggy sighs and reaches into his pocket. He makes a face as he shifts; his boxers are a sticky, cooling mess now and getting home is going to be an unpleasant proposition.

“It’s Karen,” he confirms, looking at the screen.

“Answer it.”

Foggy doesn’t want to answer it. He doesn’t want to risk Matt getting even further away before they have a chance to talk about this, to make sure they’re okay. But she could be in trouble.

He slides his thumb across the screen. “Hello?”

“Hey, Foggy. Just wanted to see how you were holding up.”

Fine. She’s fine. “I’m okay,” he says, and as if he was waiting for confirmation that there’s no emergency, Matt moves towards the front office. “Hey, wait!”

“What?” Karen asks.

“No, not you, Karen, I…” Foggy stops. Matt’s shaking his head as he moves towards the door, and Foggy doesn’t know if it’s because he doesn’t want Foggy to tell Karen that Matt’s there as Daredevil, or that Matt’s with Foggy at all.

He swallows hard past a creeping sense of shame. “I was talking to the TV.”

He can’t read the expression on Matt’s face; too much of it is hidden by the mask. Matt only pauses for a beat; then he’s into the front office and out the window. He closes it behind him, and vanishes into the night.

Foggy sighs into the phone and tries to readjust his clothing to look a little less like...well, like he just had fully-clothed sex on a table.

“Foggy? You okay?” Karen asks.

“Yeah,” he says, and tries to inject some cheer into his voice. He’s pretty sure he fails. “Yeah. Just...Mets are doing lousy tonight. How are you?”

He finds the file he needs as Karen talks, tucks it under his arm, and makes sure he’s got his pepper spray in his hand after he locks up the office. It’s gonna be a long walk home.

*

The bullshit thing is it happens in the _morning_.

Foggy’s heading to work, a cup of coffee from his favorite bakery in his hand. The sun is out and he’s more concerned with what he’s going to say to Matt when he sees him - and whether or not he’ll simply expire of awkwardness on the spot - than anything involving the Giacomo case.

He’s passing the corner where Matt first kissed him when a van pulls to a stop in front of him, the door slides open, and three guys in ski masks yank him inside. It’s so fast he’s not sure any of the pedestrians walking down the street even notice. He barely has time to do more than yelp and drop his coffee in the gutter before the door’s closed and the van’s tearing down the street.

“Fuck, fuck, what the _fuck_ ,” he manages, rolling over from his stomach to his back, sitting up, starting to stand - 

\- and that’s a gun pointed at his face. Okay. Sitting. Sitting is good too.

“You appear to be a very slow learner, Mr. Nelson,” one of the ski-masked guys says - not the one holding the gun, although Foggy’s not optimistic that they’re not all armed, even if he can’t see it. “You were advised to drop the Giacomo case.”

Foggy licks his lips, hands out in what he hopes is a pacifying gesture. “Don’t do this, man.” He wishes his voice was lower. His pulse feels rabbit-fast. “Abduction. Assault. You don’t want those charges.”

“You think we’re worried about that?” Ski Mask #1 asks. His voice is vaguely familiar, or maybe that’s just Foggy’s panic talking. “Who exactly do you think you’re dealing with here?”

Shit. _Shit!_ “Intelligent, reasonable men, I hope,” Foggy says. Yeah, he’s sucking up - he likes his fingernails where they _are_. “This is not a good idea. You want Maria Giacomo found guilty of her cousin’s murder? Have your boys beat me in court. But I disappear, and my _partner_ \- ” He swallows. There are several answers to the question of what Matt will do if Foggy ends up getting fitted for cement shoes, and all of them are somehow even more terrifying than what’s happening to Foggy right now. “You think he won’t point out how suspicious that looks? Like someone’s afraid of who’ll wind up taking the fall for Ronny Giacomo if it isn’t Maria?”

“That a threat?” Ski Mask #1 asks. “You’re not really in the position to be making those right now, fat boy.”

Foggy barely notices the insult. Frankly, this guy can call Foggy whatever he wants as long as no one pulls a trigger. “No no no,” he says quickly. “Just pointing out that killing me will hurt your case, not help it.”

“Who said we’re going to kill you?” Ski Mask #1 says. And smiles.

A trickle of sweat runs down Foggy’s back.

“No, you’re absolutely right,” Ski Mask #1 says. “Killing you looks suspicious. You dropping the case - or throwing it, I really don’t give a shit - works much better for us. And since we’ve already asked nicely...” He lets the threat trail off.

Foggy swallows hard. “I won’t drop the case. And I certainly won’t throw it.”

“I don’t think you understand how persuasive we can be,” Ski Mask #1 says. “Boys?”

Ski Mask #2 kicks Foggy in the stomach.

It hurts. Holy flipping shit, it _hurts_. Foggy hasn’t been in a fight since he was nine, when he flailed his arms pathetically at Brett Mahoney until Brett tripped him and sat on his back so he could play his GameBoy in peace. It did not prepare him for a heavy boot bruising his smaller intestine. He lets out a noise like a dying balloon and doubles over.

“Now, normally I’d stop here and give you a chance to change your mind before I let the boys really work you over,” Ski Mask #1 says. “But frankly, Nelson, you’ve pissed me off. So I’m going to let them have their fun.”

Foggy manages to block the next kick with his forearm. Pain sings up his arm. There’s a foot to his jaw while he’s distracted. He bites his tongue and feels his mouth fill with blood.

He rolls into a ball, legs tucked up to protect his torso, arms in front of his face. The kicks don’t stop, sharp toes and dull heels slamming into him. Should he roll over? Give them his back? Protect his spine or his face? Maybe he should try to fight his way out, but he doesn’t think he can overpower four men, and they have guns, and the van is _moving_ and _locked_ , and God, everything _hurts_.

A foot clips his temple and his head swims. He chokes on blood and coughs, sticky wetness on his hands. How does Matt get away when he’s overpowered, why did Foggy never ask, where is Matt, why won’t Matt make them stop…

The van screeches to a halt.

“Think it over, Nelson.” The voice is very far away. “Or next time it’ll be that blind partner of yours. Or that blonde piece of ass who works for you. Soft guy like you, I don’t think you want them on your conscience.”

A rumble - the door sliding open. Sunlight streams in.

“We’ll be in touch,” the distant voice says.

Foggy is rolled out of the van. He gasps as he hits the pavement hard, too out of breath to scream. A door slams, and the van peels off.

Get up. He has to get up, he has to warn Matt, he has to protect Karen, he has to. Call Brett, call the police. Everything hurts and his legs aren’t responding right, but. He has to.

“You okay, man?” someone says. Not the same voice. The sun is too bright. It wasn’t supposed to happen in the morning.

“Shit, he’s bleeding..”

“Yo, someone call 911.”

More voices. Cars, a dog barking. Is this what Matt hears?

And then: high heels, steady and then breaking into a sudden run. “Foggy!”

Karen. She kneels beside him, cool hands on his face, brushing his hair back. “Oh good, Karen’s here,” he tries to say, but it comes out wet. No, he can’t get blood on Karen, she’s always so pretty. She’s had enough blood on her.

“Foggy, Foggy, holy shit, what happened?” She’s fumbling for her phone. She has to warn Matt, he thinks. They can’t hurt Matt, Matt’s too strong for them, but if they try they’ll find out his secret.

“Matt,” he says, but that’s it, because Karen doesn’t know. Karen should know, but she doesn’t.

“Yeah, I’m gonna get Matt, don’t worry.” Is she crying? That’s no good, Karen shouldn’t cry. “I’ll call 911 and then I’ll call Matt, okay? You’re gonna be okay, Foggy.”

Of course he is. Karen’s here and Matt’s coming, Foggy can warn them and everything will be fine. He pats her knee to reassure her, and then she’s talking on the phone and it doesn’t really make sense and it’s very dark, Foggy has to stay awake until Matt gets here but it’s dark and he hurts and maybe he’ll just -


	3. Chapter 3

Foggy wakes up to people talking.

“...have to calm down, Matt. He’s fine.”

“He’s in the hospital!”

Matt. He’s so distressed Foggy wakes the rest of the way up, though when he tries to open his eyes it doesn’t totally work. Also, it hurts.

“Okay, he’s not fine, but he’ll _be_ fine. He has a concussion and a lot of bruising, but there’s no internal bleeding and nothing’s broken.”

Claire. Foggy's lying in a bed but not his own, so he must be in the hospital. He’s who they’re talking about.

“He smells like blood! He smells like _blood_ , he was _kidnapped_ and _beaten_ and I’m just supposed to - ”

“You’re just supposed to be an ordinary blind lawyer worried about his friend, not a lunatic prowling the hospital like a caged tiger talking about people who _smell like blood_. I know you’re upset, but this isn’t helping.”

“ _Upset?_ I can’t - he’s - ”

“Let Claire do her job, Matty,” Foggy says. His voice comes out rusty and his tongue is leaden and sore. “She can’t heal us wounded warriors if she’s busy trying to keep you from terrorizing the nurses’ station.”

“ _Foggy_.” Matt’s voice is thick and Foggy forces his eyes open despite the pain. One seems normal; the other feels swollen.

But Matt’s leaning over him, and even as pale and frightened and furious as he looks, it was worth opening his eyes to see him.

“I'm going to make them pay,” Matt promises, low and dark. “No one will ever dare to touch you again.”

That...isn't exactly what Foggy was hoping he'd say. But since Foggy isn't sure _what_ he was hoping for, he supposes it'll do.

“Is Karen okay?” he asks, because the last time he saw her she was crying in the street. And because it's easier to worry about her than to address Matt's vows of bloody vengeance.

“She's fine,” Matt says. Foggy watches his fingers clench and twitch, hands hanging by his sides. Where's his cane? “She's getting coffee.”

Foggy starts to say something but coughs instead. Matt's expression goes even darker.

“Matt, I think Foggy could use some ice chips,” Claire says quickly. “Could you go get some, please?”

Matt jumps back from Foggy's bed like he's on fire. “Yeah. Yes. I'll just...I'll be right back,” he says, snatches up his cane which was leaning by the door, and books it out of the room.

Foggy bites back the thought that if Matt was in the hospital - if Matt ever _allowed_ himself to be in the hospital - wild horses couldn't drag Foggy from his bedside.

“He's been pacing nonstop,” Claire says, so the hurt must show on Foggy's face. “Better to give him a job. Plus if I give you the rundown of your injuries while he’s not here he’s less likely to break stuff.”

Oh. Foggy smiles despite himself - or tries to and quickly stops, because his lip hurts too. “Has he been breaking a lot of stuff, then?”

“Not as much as he’d like, I’m sure,” Claire says, looking wry. “Okay. You’ve got a black eye and a split lip, which I’m sure you’ve noticed. Bit your tongue pretty badly so it might feel a bit swollen, but it’ll heal on its own. A mild concussion. Significant bruising, mostly on your arms and legs, but a couple of your ribs got nicely bruised, too. You’ll be turning all sorts of nasty colors over the next couple weeks.” She gives him a sympathethic half-smile. “Luckily, there doesn’t appear to be any other internal damage, so we should be able to release you in a few hours if you’re feeling up to it. Let me or your doctor know immediately if you’re experiencing pain in other places or any unusual symptoms, though.”

He doesn’t like the way she said that last bit. “Unusual symptoms?”

“Bloody urine,” she says bluntly, and Foggy winces, then hisses when it makes his whole face hurt. “Your doctor will be by in a little bit with a scrip for some more of what you’re on right now,” she adds, and Foggy belatedly notices the IV drip in his hand. No wonder everything’s a little blurry. “I assume that unlike Matt you actually take medicine when it’s prescribed?”

“Religiously,” Foggy says, and then: “Matt. Is he...did he…”

He’s not sure what he’s trying to ask. He’s terrified Matt will rush off half-cocked and get himself killed. He’s terrified Matt will indulge that darker side Foggy’s only seen glimpses of and kill someone _else_.

He’s terrified Matt’s left the room so fast because he doesn’t want to be here, after last night.

“He’s worried sick,” Claire says. “I’ve seen him bleeding out more times that I care to remember, but I’ve never seen him this _scared_.”

Foggy doesn’t snort, because that would hurt, but he does kind of make a _huff_ sound. “Matt’s not scared of anything.”

“Uh-huh,” Claire says dryly.

There’s a tap of cane in the hall outside and they both clam up, even though Foggy knows, and he’s sure Claire does too, that Matt’s heard most if not all of their conversation.

Matt comes in with about six cups of ice chips tucked into the curve of his free arm. He’s still pale, his hair even more distractedly poofy than usual, his expression still torn between murderous and something Foggy can’t identify. “I hope I got enough,” he says as he leans the cane against the nearest chair and hands Foggy a cup.

Foggy curves his hands around the plastic despite the cold. “Well,” he says, “I guess it’ll do for now.”

*

Foggy gives a full report to the police about an hour later, when he’s more awake. Karen also gave them a report, but given that she didn’t arrive until the van was already gone, she couldn’t tell them more than they already knew.

She’s the picture of guilt when she appears in the door of Foggy’s room.

“Don’t,” he says. Matt’s stepped out to find coffee that doesn’t taste like dishwater, and it’s just the two of them.

She comes into the room, words tumbling out in a rush. “I told you not to drop the case, this never would have happened if I had just dropped it, this is exactly what happened with Ben and I can’t let anyone else get hurt because of - ”

“Me,” Foggy interrupts firmly. “Because of _me_.”

“But - ”

“You didn’t convince me to do anything I wasn’t already planning to do anyway,” Foggy says. “This is my case and my decision, and I made my choice. I’m not convinced it was the wrong one.”

Karen knuckles at her reddened eyes and sits down on the edge of the bed. “Yeah, well, maybe you should make safer choices, Foggy Nelson,” she says, and puts a hand on his. “I kinda like having you around to sign the paychecks.”

He gives her a lopsided smile. The romantic part of their relationship might have fizzled after that one abruptly-ended date, but he still loves the crap out of her. “I kinda like having you around to cash them,” he says.

She stays with Foggy for the rest of the day, fetching him water and snacks and laughing at his vague, loopy jokes. That last part is probably mostly out of guilty politeness, but Foggy’ll take it.

Claire checks in regularly and ducks in to say goodbye when her shift is over. Brett agrees to run interference with Foggy’s parents, since Bess knows all the gossip in the neighborhood and relays most of it to Foggy’s mom, and Foggy doesn’t have the energy to deal with her fear on top of his own.

And then there’s Matt.

Matt’s never still. He won’t go home or to the office, but he doesn’t seem to want to be in Foggy’s room either. When Karen can get him to sit he seems distracted and jumpy, listening to something out of reach of normal ears.

The charitable part of Foggy thinks that a hospital must be a terrible place for someone with super-hearing, super-smell, and vivid memories of a traumatic childhood accident.

The uncharitable part wishes Matt would just stop pretending he wants to be there.

His room doesn’t have a window, but if he couldn’t tell by the clock that the sun’s gone down, he’d know by the fact that Matt’s gotten more fidgety than ever.

“Go,” he says, once Karen’s slipped out to use the ladies’ room.

Matt startles, nearly dropping his cane. “What?”

“You look like you’re going to explode. Or challenge the next person who comes through that door to a duel, and frankly I think Karen could kick your ass,” Foggy says. “I know you want to be out there tracking them down. Just go.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” Matt says, even though his head’s already cocked to the door and not to Foggy.

“Karen’s here, and they’re going to let me go soon. Brett can get us home. You just…” Foggy waves his hand towards the door. “You know. Make yourself useful. Bust some heads.”

Something pained and terrible makes its way across Matt’s face. But he stands, cane gripped tightly in both hands. “All right. I’ll. I’ll just.”

He steps forward suddenly, and smooths Foggy’s hair back from his forehead. His hand is rough, and shaking a little. “I’ll check in when I’m done.”

Foggy swallows, but when he says, “Thanks,” it still comes out as a whisper.

And Matt’s gone.

*

Foggy gives Karen some bullshit story about sending Matt down to the precinct when she gets back. Turns out she doesn’t feel too guilty to read him the riot act about sending a _fucking blind man_ out on his own when the _fucking mob_ is _fucking threatening them_. For someone who looks like a collectable porcelain doll, Karen sure can swear like a sailor when she wants to.

Of course, she has a few choice words for _Matt_ , too, for leaving his best friend and partner in the hospital. It doesn’t soothe Foggy’s righteous indignation as much as he would have hoped.

The doctor gives Foggy the all-clear to go home not long after Matt leaves, and he gingerly climbs back into his clothes. He’s bruised everywhere, angry red and purple and navy splashes of color all over his pale skin, and he knows they’re only going to look and feel worse before they get better. His tongue’s improved already, but his face looks...well, like Matt’s does after a bad night, although without the beautiful bone structure or heroism to make up for it.

Brett and Karen ferry him home in a cab, and Brett stays downstairs with the meter running while Karen insists on walking Foggy all the way up to his apartment. He owes them both _stupendous_ Christmas gifts.

“You’re _sure_ you’re okay?” Karen asks once they’re in his living room, wringing her hands. “I can stay, I can sleep on the couch, or we can ask Brett…”

“I’m _fine_ , Karen,” he says. “I’ve got prescription strength painkillers and a much more comfortable bed than the one in the hospital. I’m good.” He also has four locks on the door, the natural paranoia of a native-born New Yorker, but he’s not going to mention that and scare Karen further.

“Can I get you anything?” she asks. “Do you want me to make coffee, or pick up some dinner for you, or…”

He shakes his head, cutting her off. “I really just want to go to sleep.”

She nods, then leans in and kisses his cheek. “I’m glad you’re okay, Foggy,” she says softly. “Please try to stay in one piece?”

“Yeah.” He squeezes her hand. “Yeah, I’ll try. Thanks, Karen.”

She heads out to be escorted home by Brett - just in case. And Foggy’s left alone.

He locks all four of the locks. He changes into pajamas. He makes a cup of hot cocoa and stares blankly past it until it goes cold and chalky and he has to pour it out.

He checks the locks six times.

Finally, when he can't put it off anymore, he climbs into bed, phone close at hand for Matt's call. But even after over an hour of tossing and turning, trying to find a position that doesn't aggravate his injuries, he's too keyed up to sleep, especially after all the rest he got at the hospital. Instead he just lies there, staring into the dark and jumping at every imagined sound.

They know where he lives. He's sure of that now - they clearly followed him to work today. How often do they follow him? Are there eyes watching his front door from across the street even now? Do they have a tail on Karen, on Brett, on _Matt?_

Do they know Matt’s secret?

He gasps when he hears the rap at the window, and jerks upright. His phone, he has to call the cops, he has to call _Matt…_

There's another set of taps. Rhythmic, but not a steady knocking. There's a hitch early on, a pause, almost like…

_Shave and a haircut._

He's gonna _kill_ Matt.

Foggy eases himself out of bed and pads across the floor. Everything aches, right down to the bone, and it's all he can do to push the window up. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Daredevil says.

Foggy steps back from the window. The temperature’s dropped again this week and he's already shivering. “Come inside if you want to talk. It's too cold to stand here with the window open.”

Matt pauses, then climbs in and shuts the window behind himself. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore,” Foggy says, and Matt’s lips tighten. “What did you find out?”

Matt sighs. “Not much. We don't have a lot of leads. I found some of the low-level mooks who work for the Gulyases and knocked a few heads together, but they didn't know anything.”

“Or they weren't talking,” Foggy suggests.

“Trust me, if they had known anything, they would have told me,” Matt says, and he's not smiling, but the whiteness of his teeth in the dark still makes Foggy feel sick. “Then I tried following your buddy Officer Thompson for a while. Nothing. He got shitfaced at a dive bar and pissed in an alley on his way home.” His lip curls. “So much for New York’s Finest.”

“So they're still out there.” Foggy knows it's not Matt's fault, that he's doing everything he can, but he can't seem to keep his voice from coming out flat and angry.

“For now,” Matt says. His fists clench. “But I'm going to find them, Foggy. I promised, I _promised you_ I would never let you get hurt, and you - ” His mouth twists, sharp and painful. “I won’t break that promise again. They'll never hurt you again, or Karen, or _anyone_. I'll make them pay.”

“I don’t - God!” Foggy says, raking his hands through his hair and wincing when it jars his hands, his shoulders, his swollen eye. He doesn’t want this, any of it. He doesn’t want Matt to make anyone _pay_ , he doesn’t want Matt putting himself in the line of fire because he blames himself for things he couldn’t help, he doesn’t want Matt showing up with his face hidden so Foggy can’t read him.

He doesn’t want Matt fucking him and running away, or this empty aching distance where there used to be something Foggy understood. He’s wanted Matt for years, but he’d trade rushed, shameful sex with Daredevil for one smile from his best friend in a heartbeat.

“Foggy?” Matt asks, and Foggy realizes that he’s still shaking, even though it’s warm in his apartment.

“I don’t care about the Gulyases right now,” Foggy says. “I don’t care about what Daredevil did, or what he’s going to do, or...could you just…” To his great shame, he feels his eyes well up with tears. He knows Matt can tell. “I just really need my best friend right now.”

“ _Foggy_ ,” Matt says again, yanking the helmet off, and it’s Matt, it’s just Matt’s sweet face, and he puts his arms around Foggy and lets Foggy cry into his neck.

“Shhh,” he whispers, rubbing circles on Foggy’s back like he’s a child, like Foggy did for him sometimes when they were in college and Matt had nightmares they never talked about. “I’m here. I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

“I thought I was going to die,” Foggy says, choked. “I was so scared, Matt.”

Matt presses his face to Foggy's hair. “Me too,” he whispers.

Somehow they end up in the bed. Matt's stripped off all the cold and uncomfortable parts of the suit, is left in just boxers and one of Foggy's old t-shirts, and he's curled around Foggy, but it's not about sex. It's about Matt's strong arms wrapped around him, about the soothing tone of his voice as he whispers over and over again that he's here, he's here, he's here, Foggy.

Foggy burrows into the warmth of him and lets himself be held. He knows, intellectually, that it’s not okay, that they’re still in danger, that there’s still so much they need to talk about - that it might _never_ be okay.

But Matt’s here, and for now, he’s safe.

*

It’s less that Foggy falls asleep and more that he eventually drifts from a state where he’s awake and crying to neither of those. He wakes stiff and sore and raw-throated, with Matt draped over him like a shield. Luckily, the former is uncomfortable enough to keep his body from reacting to the latter.

Matt sits bolt upright when Foggy stirs, and it takes him a few seconds of breathing deep and echolocating or whatever it is he does to wipe the startled look off his face. “Foggy,” he says, and Foggy doesn’t bother to ask how Matt knows he’s awake. Probably he smells different or something. “Are you...how are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” Foggy says, tries to sit up, and makes a truly embarrassing noise as all of yesterday’s injuries catch up with him at once. “Nope,” he amends, dropping back into the warm embrace of his mattress. “Nope. Not okay. Definitely not okay. How do you walk around like this all the time?”

Matt winces. His brow is aggressively furrowed, as if he can heal Foggy by frowning hard enough in his direction. “Practice,” he says. “They gave you painkillers, right? Should I get them?”

“Please. Kitchen table. And water?”

Matt nods and scurries off. Foggy concentrates on sitting up enough to take the pills when Matt returns with them, which is painful enough to be a good distraction from thinking about anything _else_.

When Matt comes back, he perches on the edge of the bed and hands Foggy the prescription bottle. Foggy opens it, shakes out two pills, and downs them with the water Matt brought, then hands it all back to Matt. Matt puts the bottle and glass on the nightstand, points his face towards Foggy, and takes a deep breath. Foggy braces himself.

“You’re not going into work today,” Matt says.

It’s so not the difficult conversation Foggy was expecting that he bursts out laughing - and then cringes, because it hurts his lip and ribcage. “Yeah, buddy, I know.”

Matt blinks. “You do?”

“I’m not _you_ ,” Foggy says. He can’t keep the fondness out of his voice. This is the lunatic he chose, after all. “I like to rest the day after I’ve been beaten up by criminals. I mean, that’s always been a speculative policy but now that I’ve been given a chance to test it I think it’s a good one.”

“You won't have to use it again, trust me,” Matt says, darkening, and Foggy puts a hand out to forestall any more grim proclamations.

“I do trust you,” he says. “I know you'll…” He can't say “fix this”; there's too much broken to be sure it won't read as a lie. “I trust you. Just...not now, okay?”

Matt nods quickly, as if eager to please, or maybe he's just afraid Foggy will turn on the waterworks again. “Do. Do you want me to leave?”

Foggy looks at him. His hair is wild, standing on end on one side and crushed flat on the other. He's swimming in the faded t-shirt he borrowed from Foggy, rubbing the hem of it distractedly between his thumb and forefinger, and his eyes are wide and greener than usual in the morning light, hung on something invisible somewhere past Foggy's left ear.

Loving Matt is usually easy and natural, like turning his face to sunlight on a warm spring day, or tapping his foot to the beat of a beloved song. Right now, though, the weight of loving him bears down so heavy on Foggy’s chest that he can hardly breathe.

“No,” he says. He even manages to get it out louder than a whisper, albeit hoarsely. “Stay.”

Something in Matt seems to ease, a tension he won’t speak aloud, and he nods again. “Okay,” he says.

An awkward silence falls between them. Matt makes no move to get back into bed properly, and Foggy’s not sure how to ask him. Foggy’s stomach suddenly gurgling so loud even someone _without_ super senses could hear is an embarrassing way to break the quiet, but at least it works.

“I guess it’s breakfast time,” Foggy says.

Matt tilts his head and breathes in. “That may be so, but you have nothing in your fridge.”

“Bull _shit_ , you did _not_ just smell that from here with the fridge door closed,” Foggy says.

Matt is really terrible at hiding smiles. “I may have checked when I got your pills.” He stands up. “I’ll run down to the bodega on the corner, get some eggs and cheese.”

“Sweet, eggs a la Murdock,” Foggy says. For someone who turns depriving himself into an art form, Matt can whip up a mean scramble. Eggs a la Murdock - which Matt refuses to call them despite Foggy’s best wheedling - got them through many a law school hangover.

“You should call Karen,” Matt says. “Have her come over here to work today. She’ll be safer, and the office is a wreck anyway.”

“Then _you_ should stop by your apartment on your way to the bodega, unless you want to explain to Karen why you don’t have any pants that aren’t red and knife-resistant,” Foggy points out.

Matt goes a bit pink. “Yeah. Uh.”

Maybe it’s too soon to joke about this. “You can borrow a pair of my sweatpants,” Foggy says. “Third drawer, on the right side.”

“Thanks.” Matt pulls on the sweatpants, and an old Columbia sweatshirt too. He looks ridiculous in the too-big clothes but at least he’s decent now.

“You need money?” Foggy asks.

“Nah, I keep a twenty in my boot for emergencies. At least I hope it’s a twenty.” Matt smiles faintly at his own dumb joke, hovering in the doorway. “I’ll. I’ll be right back.”

“Sure.” Foggy swallows. _Don’t say it. Don’t say it._ “Matty...are we okay?”

“Don’t worry, Foggy,” Matt says. His voice is very soft, but it doesn’t make Foggy feel any better. “I’ll fix this. I promise.”

_Which part?_ Foggy thinks, but he manages to hold that bit in.

*

Foggy spends the next two days at home, plodding back and forth between the couch and the bed, staring at his bruises in grim fascination whenever he’s alone and counting all the gross colors they turn. He’s not alone very much, though; Karen’s there during the work day, and Matt…

Matt’s there all the time, except between dinnertime and about two or three in the morning, when he’s getting his Daredevil on. Honestly, Foggy’s never eaten so well - Matt’s good for more than just eggs, and his super-strong nose and tastebuds deliver aggressively healthy but surprisingly delicious meals to Foggy’s table three times a day. Foggy teases him, once, about acting like an apple a day will keep the mobsters away, but drops it when he sees the look on Matt’s face.

Matt sleeps in Foggy’s bed, too. They don’t kiss, they barely touch...but he sleeps in Foggy’s bed just the same.

On some level Foggy knows it’s pathetic that he can’t bring himself to just hash this out, to clear the air and let this fantasy of domestic bliss go. It’s not even _bliss_ , really - it’s too quiet too often, too awkward, both of them tiptoeing around each other. But waking up with Matt’s forehead pressed to the back of his neck is more than Foggy ever thought he’d get to have.

Sometimes, when it’s just the two of them, there’s something in the hook of Matt’s smile or a catch in his voice that makes Foggy think that maybe, just maybe, he’s not the only one wishing this could last. And yeah, they did have sex - if half-furious rutting against a table even _counts_ \- but this is _Matt_. Matt, who can somehow infallibly pick out the most beautiful woman in the room and infallibly make her fall for him.

Foggy’s still not totally sure how he manages the first. He’s pretty clear on the second, though.

Foggy’s never pushed it, but he’s been Matt’s for the asking practically from the moment they met. With all of Matt’s senses, he’s got to know that.

But he hasn’t asked.

It’s fine. Foggy will be fine. But that doesn’t mean he can’t pretend a little while longer.

Suddenly there’s only three days left before the Giacomo case goes to trial. Foggy needs to talk to Maria - he’s neglected his client for far too long - so he, Matt, and Karen head out to Riker’s. Matt doesn’t really need to be there and Karen _definitely_ doesn’t, but Matt won’t let Karen or Foggy go anywhere alone and he can’t explain to Karen why it’s okay for _him_ to be alone, so they’ve gotten used to traveling in a small pack.

Maria is understandably nervous about the trial, and even more understandably miserable in jail, but she’s hanging in there. Foggy coaches her a bit on what to expect in the courtroom, even though they’ve gone over this before. He’s definitely going to put her on the stand - she’s disarmingly young, and utterly convincing even to those poor mortals who can’t hear heartbeats from a jury box. She’ll be fantastic. Foggy tells her so about nine times, hoping it helps.

When he returns to where Matt and Karen are waiting, Matt’s got a faint smile on his face. “What?” Foggy asks, glancing at Karen, who shrugs.

“Nothing,” Matt says. “Ready to go?”

It’s a long schlep back from Riker’s, and the sky’s already sunset-red by the time they drop Karen off at her apartment. Foggy’s still sore, if improving, and he’s feeling the exhaustion of a full day back on his feet.

“You’re good with her, you know,” Matt says as they walk up the seemingly endless stairs to Foggy’s apartment, Matt's hand tucked securely into Foggy's elbow so that any neighbors they might pass won't wonder how Foggy's handsome blind friend suddenly got so surefooted.

“Who, Karen?”

“No, you’re awful with Karen.” Matt smiles at his own terrible joke and Foggy can’t help his snort. “Maria. You really calmed her down.”

“You were listening.” There’s no heat in Foggy’s accusation. “For a blind guy you’re a hell of a Peeping Tom.”

“Sorry.” Matt's clearly not the slightest bit sorry. “Anyway, she clearly trusts you.”

“Yeah, well, I'm trustworthy.”

Matt huffs, amused. “It's not just Maria. You're good with all our clients. You put them at ease, and you explain the law in a way they can understand. I'm no good at that.”

They've reached Foggy's floor. “Yeah, well, _you’re_ the brilliant extemporaneous speaker who can pull a closing statement out of nowhere. I can't do _that_.”

“Of course you can,” Matt insists.

“Cool your jets, Murdock,” Foggy says, fighting the fond smile that's threatening to overtake his face. “I'm perfectly content to let you have some of the lawyerin’ skills. You have strengths that I don't have, and vice versa.”

“Well,” Matt says. “It’s a good thing we’re partners then, isn’t it?”

There’s something in his voice that makes Foggy stop and turn to look at him more directly. Even though he’s facing Matt now, not beside him, Matt doesn’t let go of his arm.

“Yeah,” Foggy says. “Boy, can I pick ‘em, huh?” He doesn’t quite manage the jovial tone he was aiming for so much as “embarrassingly besotted,” but hey, it’s not like this is the first time that’s happened.

“Foggy,” Matt starts, and then seems to catch himself. “Do you think...could we…”

“Words, Matty,” Foggy teases gently.

“I’m _trying_ ,” Matt says, petulant but not mad. Foggy grins - and then the grin fades as Matt reaches up with his free hand and brushes Foggy’s hair off his forehead. It’s less of a brush than a _stroke_ , really, his fingers lingering through the strands, and it makes Foggy’s breath catch.

Matt’s hand comes to rest cupping the curve of Foggy’s jaw. His palm is warm and callused.

“I wanted to talk about the other night,” he says, very soft. “I wanted to talk about...about something that I think we should have talked about a long time ago.”

Oh. Foggy wishes Matt couldn’t hear his heart start to race. He licks his lips, watches Matt’s mouth drop open into a slack little O, and wonders if he could hear _that_ too.

“Matt,” he says, and then isn’t sure how to follow it up. The pessimistic part of him is sure he’s about to be let down easy - but Matt is touching his face. Matt is _touching his face_ , and even poorly-socialized, touchy-feely Matt generally keeps his slightly weird touching to below the neck.

There’s a little crease between Matt’s brows, and Foggy wants to live in it, to smooth it out as if that’ll somehow keep his danger magnet of a best friend free from care. “Foggy,” he says again. “I know...that I’ve been acting… _strange_ , lately, and I know that I don’t deserve you, but...but the other night, when we…” His face gets very brave. “...when we slept together. Was that just...do you - ”

Suddenly he stiffens. His head lifts, turning to catch a sound beyond Foggy’s capabilities. “Something’s wrong.”

Foggy blinks at the abrupt change in subject. He feels faintly dizzy. Matt was going to ask - and now he’s - “What? Something’s - _what’s_ wrong?”

Matt steps back, taking his hands away from Foggy’s arm and face. His cane had been dangling from his wrist by its strap, but he slips the strap off and holds on to the cane itself. Not loosely in his right hand the way he usually does, Foggy notices, but gripped tightly in both. Like a staff.

Like he’s going to fight with it.

“They’re here,” Foggy realizes. Ice grips his spine. “In - in my _apartment?_ ”

Matt nods, moving closer to Foggy’s apartment door, like a goddamn _lunatic_.

“How many?” Foggy asks.

“Can’t tell. At least four,” Matt says, voice low. “Go downstairs, call the police, and - ”

“Matt, you can’t fight them!” Foggy hisses.

“They’re just a bunch of mafia goons, I can handle them,” Matt says.

“This isn’t about your _ego_ , you nutbar!” Foggy snaps. “You don’t have your suit, if you fight them they’ll _recognize_ you!”

“I’ll hit the lights as I go in, they won’t be able to see - ”

“No!” Foggy grabs Matt’s arm. “We’ll go downstairs together, we’ll call the police, and they’ll come arrest them. You don’t need to fight them, Matt - we know where they are. We _have_ them.” He hates the idea of leaving four - or more - of the men who attacked him in his apartment, but right now they’re bottled up in there, especially if they’re not as nimble as Matt when it comes to fire escapes.

Matt still looks like he wants to break down Foggy’s door and punch everyone he finds in there in the face, but he gives a short, jerky nod. Foggy lets out a relieved breath and they turn back towards the stairs.

The door opens behind them.

“I don’t think so,” someone says - and Foggy’s heart locks with terror, because he _knows_ that voice.

He turns around. The man in his apartment is wearing a ski mask again - and pointing a gun at Matt’s head. He must’ve been watching them through the peephole.

Foggy can feel Matt trembling beside him. He knows him well enough to know it’s with the tension of holding in his fury, not fear. “Don’t move, Matt,” he says. “There’s a man in a ski mask in the door of my apartment pointing a gun at us.” It’s for appearances - it would look strange if he didn’t narrate this for Matt - but also a warning. Even if Matt _can_ take this guy out before he gets a shot off, his cover will be blown. Matt alive with a life sentence for vigilantism is better than Matt dead, but not by much.

“This would’ve been a lot easier if you and your boyfriend had just come inside instead of standing out here making kissy faces at each other,” Ski Mask #1 says.

Foggy’s too scared, too worried for Matt for the word “boyfriend” to hurt. “Let him go. It’s not his case, he can’t tell you anything.”

“Oh, I know that,” Ski Mask #1 says. “But I think _you’ll_ be much less stubborn after you watch us break a few of his fingers.”

Matt’s free hand tightens on Foggy’s arm. Foggy shakes his head and hopes Matt can perceive it. “Fine. You win. I’ll drop the case.” Fat chance, but if it gets them out of here…

“Somehow I don’t quite believe that,” Ski Mask #1 says. “Now get in here, or pretty boy over there gets a bullet right between his useless eyes.”

Foggy doesn’t want to go; Foggy doesn’t want to take a single step closer to the voice that laughs in his nightmares.

But that gun is still pointed straight at Matt, and even if Ski Mask #1 doesn’t believe Foggy, Foggy believes _him_.

He starts to move forward and Matt holds him back - strong, so much stronger than Foggy. “Foggy, _no_ ,” he says. It’s the Daredevil voice. Foggy wants to warn him to lie better.

“He’s got a _gun_ , Matt.” He doesn’t see any other way around it. If he cooperates, as much as he hates it, Matt can get away, can change into the suit - no, _shit_ , the suit is hidden in Foggy’s duffel bag at the bottom of his closet because Matt’s been de facto living at Foggy’s place for days now - well, he can change into _something_ , maybe the scrappy little mask he was wearing before, and come at them from another angle, and save Foggy.

If he _doesn’t_ cooperate, though, Matt gets shot. That’s unacceptable.

“You’ve made your point,” Matt says to Ski Mask #1, ignoring Foggy except to move slightly in front of him. “He said he’s dropping the case. You win, okay? You want to threaten someone? Threaten _me_.”

“ _Matt_.” It’s too much of a challenge, too bold, too angry.

Luckily Ski Mask #1 doesn’t hear it, or if he does he’s not worried about it. “Yeah, no, we’re taking both of you. Now move.”

The gun is still pointed at Matt’s forehead. Foggy moves, and Matt follows, his fingers bruisingly tight on Foggy’s arm.

Once they’re in the apartment, Ski Mask #1 locks the door behind them. There’s five others in there, all masked, all armed.

Six witnesses, total, if Matt does anything Daredevil-y. Six killers.

“All right, get their wrists,” Ski Mask #1 says, and a couple of the other ski masks yank Matt away from Foggy. Matt actually _growls_ , and they laugh as they toss his cane out of the way, as they pull Matt and Foggy’s hands behind their backs and put something around their wrists. Foggy tests it - plastic, thin but he can’t break it. Probably a zip strip.

“This is a bad idea, guys,” Foggy says. “Daredevil likes our firm. You don’t want to get on his bad side.” It’s a long shot, but maybe it’ll at least give them pause…

The ski mask who cuffed Foggy snorts. “Daredevil’s not here now, is he?”

He shoves Foggy forward, driving his heel into the back of Foggy’s knees so that Foggy goes down on them hard. With his arms bound behind him, he nearly faceplants into the floorboards, and wrenching himself upright makes his still-sore body ache.

Matt jerks forward, as if to run to him, and the guy behind him yanks him back. “Foggy!”

“I’m okay, Matt.” He’s not, nothing about this okay, but it’s second nature to try to make things better for Matt.

“Let him go,” Matt says to Ski Mask #1. “He said he’s dropping the case. You got what you wanted. Let him _go_.”

“Hey,” Ski Mask #1 says to one of the other men instead of answering Matt. “Shut him up.”

The other guy punches Matt in the face.

Foggy can’t help his cry of dismay, even though he knows Matt’s had worse. Matt’s glasses go flying, the glasses Foggy bought him all those years ago. They crack against the hardwood floor. Without them, there’s no hiding the fury on his face, even as red blooms over his cheekbone.

One of the other mooks snorts. “Blind boy can take a punch.”

“Eh, he’s only not scared because he can’t see these,” says the guy behind Matt, tapping his gun against Matt’s neck. Foggy tries hard to swallow past the fear clogging his throat.

A phone rings and everyone jumps. Ski Mask #1 swears, then digs his phone out of his pocket and steps away. “Yeah. What? You’re shitting me. You’re _shitting_ me. No, I’m already at the lawyer’s place, with the...yeah. I don’t care _what_ he says, you tell him that I’m fucking handling it!”

“What’s up?” one of the other guys asks, drifting towards Ski Mask #1.

“Shut up,” Ski Mask #1 tells him. “No, not you, this asshole here,” he says into the phone.

“Hey, fuck you,” the so-dubbed asshole says.

No one’s looking at Matt or Foggy. Foggy almost thinks Matt’ll take the opportunity to break some skulls, but he’s still holding himself ramrod straight, a lightning rod of rage. He knows as well as Foggy does that if he fights back, he’s going to jail.

“...No, I’m not gonna kill the blind guy, you think I’m stupid?” Ski Mask #1 says. “But he’s still leverage with a few broken fingers. Or in a coma.”

Foggy’s mind stutters, goes blank for a minute. A coma. They’re going to beat Matt into a coma, no matter what Foggy says, and they’re going to make him watch, and Matt won’t be able to do a thing to stop them. And who says Matt will ever wake up from that?

This is all Foggy’s fault. He shouldn’t have been so stubborn about the case, he should have let Matt get involved as Daredevil sooner, he should’ve concentrated on the fucking _mob_ trying to stop him from representing Maria instead of his stupid infatuation. Even a few minutes ago he might have made the wrong choice. Maybe he should’ve let Matt go into the apartment ahead of him, maybe Matt could’ve gotten the lights out before anyone recognized him and - 

Maybe Foggy can still fix this.

The ski masks are still arguing with each other and whoever’s on the phone. No one’s looking at Foggy. “ _Matt_ ,” he murmurs, barely moving his lips, so low only Matt can hear him.

Matt’s head turns in his direction. He’s listening.

_“You can get out of a zip strip, right?”_

Matt’s brow furrows but he nods, ever so slightly.

_“And you can take all of them? Fast?”_

Another nod.

Okay, then. _“When I say ‘Daredevil,’ that's your cue.”_

Matt's eyes go wide as he realizes that Foggy's planning something. He shakes his head urgently, but Foggy's already shifting his balance, getting ready to stand.

_“You got this, Matty,”_ he whispers, even as Matt mouths “no” in his direction. And then, just in case: _“I love you.”_

And he lurches to his feet.

“We're in here!” he shouts. Their captors turn to look at him, startled. “Daredevil, we’re in here!”

“What the fuck - ” one of the thugs says, but Foggy's already moving, heading for the light switch. There's the crack of a gunshot as he reaches it, deafeningly loud, and something burns across his shoulder. But he slams the other shoulder into the switch and plunges the room into darkness.

It's instantaneous - the sound of blows connecting and bones breaking, screams and thuds as Matt unleashes his fury on their tormentors. It's not pitch black in the apartment, not with the lights of the city outside, and Foggy can see a dark shape mowing the mobsters down. He presses himself to the wall and tries to stay out of the way.

Finally there's the thud of a sixth body hitting the floor. “Foggy?” Matt says, and Foggy exhales in relief.

“Are they all unconscious?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

Foggy digs his shoulder into the light switch to flip it on. Matt's flushed and breathing hard; he's holding his hand somewhat awkwardly, like its injured, but otherwise he looks fine.

“Oh, thank God,” Foggy says. “I heard the gun go off and I thought you'd been shot.”

“ _Foggy_ ,” Matt says, strangled, and it's only then that Foggy realizes that his hand is wet and sticky, that he's left a smear of blood on the wall and the burning in his shoulder has become more of an all-encompassing fire.

“Oh,” he says, with a sort of distant amazement. “ _I've_ been shot. That’s so hardcore.”

“ _Foggy_ ,” Matt says again, and he’s rushing forward - no, he stops, fumbles at one of the unconscious bodies on the floor and pulls a Swiss Army knife out of a pocket before hurrying to Foggy’s side. “That was so stupid, that was _dangerous_ , what were you _thinking_ \- ” He touches Foggy’s face briefly before turning him around to get at the zip tie, like he wants to make sure that Foggy’s still standing and breathing and not some kind of auditory hallucination.

“They were going to torture you,” Foggy says. Does Matt really need more explanation than that?

“They could have _killed_ you,” Matt says. The zip tie snaps and Foggy gasps as the release jars his injured arm. Immediately Matt’s yanking off his jacket, bundling it up to press it to the wound. Foggy’s pretty sure it’s just a graze - just a bullet _graze_ , he’s like an action hero now - but it’s bleeding badly enough that he doesn’t bother telling Matt not to ruin his good suit.

“Nah,” Foggy says, and tries for a devil-may-care smile, even though he knows it’s wasted on Matt. “Daredevil saved me.”

“ _Christ_.” Matt buries his free hand in Foggy’s hair, pulls him in to rest his forehead against Foggy’s. “Don’t you ever - _ever_ \- do something like that again.”

“Don’t get almost tortured again,” Foggy says. He feels dizzy, and he’s not sure if it’s relief or blood loss or just Matt’s lips being so close.

Matt sighs; Foggy feels the warmth of it against his cheek. When he focuses his eyes to try to read Matt’s expression, Matt’s own eyes are closed.

“You said you loved me.”

Foggy’s heart stutters. “You heard that, huh?”

Matt’s mouth quirks. “I have pretty good hearing, Fog.”

He’s not pulling away. Foggy takes a steadying breath. “You knew that I did. That I do.”

“I wasn’t sure,” Matt admits, and Foggy’s heart plunges to a previously-unknown level of hell focused mainly on _extreme mortification_ until Matt adds, “I… _hoped_ you did.”

Foggy pulls back far enough to get a better look at Matt’s face. His eyes are open now, his expression soft and pleading and scared.

“I mean, I knew you loved me, of course, I’m not stupid,” Matt says quickly, embarrassedly. “But I didn’t know if the other night was just a fluke, if. If you loved me just as a friend, or a brother, or like I love you…”

Foggy kisses him. Matt makes a pained noise and tightens his hand in Foggy’s hair and kisses _back_ , and it’s not _quite_ worth getting shot, but all things considered, Foggy will take it.

One of the guys on the floor groans, and Foggy wobbles, and he and Matt both seem to remember that they should probably call 911 at the same time. “I should…” Foggy starts.

“Sit,” Matt says.

“Wait,” Foggy says, looking at the bodies strewn about his apartment floor. His arm is really starting to hurt, and he’s sort of having trouble thinking about anything but Matt saying _like I love you_ , but he needs to see something.

It takes him a minute to identify Ski Mask #1 when they’re not talking, but that leather jacket is familiar. He crouches - carefully, carefully, he’s getting kind of woozy now - and, with a weird feeling of deja vu, pulls the ski mask off.

It’s Thompson.

He lurches back up, takes a few shaky steps back until Matt catches him. “It’s.” He swallows, wets his lips. “Thompson. He _did_ tell me to stay away from the case.” And he was smarter than anyone suspected, if he ranked high enough in his organization to be in charge of handling Foggy’s recalcitrance.

Matt squeezes his shoulder. “I recognized his voice when he opened the door. He’s lucky I didn’t have time to do more than put him down.” He takes a step back from Foggy and points towards the couch, his hand still held awkwardly. “Now sit. And keep the pressure on the wound. You need a hospital.”

“What’s wrong with your hand?” Foggy asks as he obeys.

Matt’s already collecting weapons from the unconscious men. He piles them on the couch next to Foggy, which is sort of terrifying. “Dislocated my thumb to get out of the zip strip.”

“Matthew!”

“Franklin! You got yourself _shot_ ,” Matt points out, which, well, fair.

“You’re going to let a doctor look at that and not just Claire, right?” Foggy asks. “You can say the mooks over there dislocated it before Daredevil came in and saved us both.”

Matt takes out his cell phone with the hand that has _nothing dislocated_ on it. “What’s wrong with Claire?”

“Nothing, Claire is lovely, but someday you’re going to get her arrested for smuggling you painkillers that you don’t even _take_.”

“Painkillers cloud my senses. I can meditate.”

“You are a _lunatic_.”

They’re still bickering when the police and the paramedics arrive, sitting on a bloody couch with a stockpile of stolen weapons, surrounded by unconscious mobsters. Foggy’s arm is throbbing and his couch is stained with blood.

But Matt’s holding Foggy’s uninjured hand in his own.

It’s the happiest Foggy’s ever been.

*

When questioned by the police, the men who attacked Matt and Foggy aren’t sure exactly _when_ Daredevil showed up - no one got a good look at him. They’re in agreement that he burst into the apartment right after Foggy hit the lights, though, because _someone_ beat them all to hell, and it certainly wasn’t unathletic Foggy Nelson or his blind partner.

When Foggy gives his own statement, he just shrugs and says that he saw Daredevil and knew he would save them. Matt says he didn’t see anything at all. Both statements are absolutely true.

All six of their attackers work for the Gulyases, and several of them sing like canaries, even _former_ Officer Thompson. Foggy cheerfully volunteers to testify against all of them. It seems, unsurprisingly, that the Gulyases took out Ronny Giacomo to clear space for their own organization, and Maria, who happened to be in the wrong place at the right time, was an excellent fall guy due to the bad blood between her father and Ronny’s. The Gulyases have expensive lawyers who manage to keep the charges against Maria from being dropped entirely like Foggy suggests, but it’s their own undoing. Rushing the trial through means Foggy showing up in the courtroom bruised and - he hopes - heroic-looking, which clearly rattles the opposing counsel and gets the jury on his side.

Not that he needs it. Not to put too fine a point on it, but Foggy kicks _ass_ in there. Or at least that’s what Matt keeps saying after they’ve shared their traditional “we won!” glass of champagne with Karen and she’s left them in Matt’s apartment with two kisses on the cheeks and a knowing leer in Foggy’s direction.

Foggy’s been staying there for the past few days, since his own apartment gives him the willies right now. And also because, well. Matt’s here.

“I wish I could’ve seen the look on that one A.D.A.’s face after your closing. You know, the really smug one?” Matt says, washing the last of the coffee mugs they drank their champagne out of - they're less broke now, but not purchasing-drink-specific-vessels flush - and placing it in the dish drainer.

Foggy hands him a dish towel. "Eh, you're not missing much. He kind of looks like a warthog."

Matt dries his hands and hangs the towel on the oven door handle. "Yeah, but you had your gloating voice on, so his expression must have been pretty good."

"Excuse me, I do not have a gloating voice."

"You most certainly do." Matt hooks a finger into Foggy's belt loop with uncanny accuracy and tugs him forward. "Luckily I'm a big fan of it."

"Oh, _really?_ " Foggy asks, grinning.

"See, there it is again."

It's only been a few days and Foggy still isn't used to this, Matt's hands on him and his smile tilting towards the suggestive. He's not sure he'll _ever_ be used to it, but that's okay; the startled joy he feels every time he leans in to kiss Matt and Matt meets him halfway and eager is the best feeling he knows.

This time when he leans in, though, Matt leans back - and backs up, tugging Foggy along with him by his belt loops. "At the risk of making you even gloatier, I think we should celebrate."

"I thought you said you _liked_ the gloaty voice that I don't have," Foggy points out.

"Oh, well in that case..."

Matt's smile goes dirty and Foggy's breath comes faster as he realizes Matt's leading him towards the bedroom. They haven't done this yet, not counting that one night at the office - Foggy spent the first night they kissed in the hospital, and he's been too sore and exhausted and busy with the case to do much more than collapse into bed every evening since.

But now the case is over, and Matt's looking at him - well, not _at_ him, but in his general direction - like Foggy's a birthday cake and Matt's just blown out the candles and made a wish.

"Is this okay?" Matt asks, probably picking up on Foggy's heartbeat or maybe the smell of his eyelashes or something.

"Obviously. Though if you walk into a wall going backwards like that I'm going to laugh at you," Foggy warns him.

Matt snorts. It's fantastically unattractive. "Yes, I really should look where I'm going," he drawls, and moves faster, without turning around.

Foggy's still laughing when they hit the bed, Matt pinned under him, his hands making quick work of Foggy's loosened tie and shirt. He eases the latter carefully over the bandage on Foggy's shoulder and tosses it off the bed.

"Someone's in a hurry," Foggy teases.

Matt scrunches up his face, mock-petulant. " _Someone's_ been waiting ten years for this."

At that, Foggy sits up straight, straddling Matt's hips. "What? Ten _years?_ "

Matt squirms beneath him, which is...amazing, actually, but distracting. "Give or take."

"Oh my God," Foggy says. Matt looks mortified until Foggy curls forward and presses his forehead to Matt's collarbone, for lack of a desk to bang his head against. "We are so stupid."

"Probably," Matt agrees carefully, and then, "Wait. You too?"

Foggy sighs and slides off of Matt, tugging him over as he goes so that they end up on their sides, facing each other. He knows it doesn't make much difference to Matt, but he wants to see Matt's face. "Matty, I was half in love with you by the time you finished unpacking that sad little duffel bag of yours."

Matt goes pink. "Oh. I didn't. Um." He bites his lip. "I knew, sort of? That you were attracted to me?"

"Because I basically shouted it in your ear with a bullhorn?" Foggy asks, wry. It's been long enough that remembering how awkward he was when they first met isn't embarrassing anymore. _Especially_ when he's lying half naked in Matt's bed.

Matt laughs, the jerk. "Well, yes, but also, I could just...tell. From your heartbeat, pheromones, um. Some things you said in your sleep."

"Oh _God_." Okay, now _that_ part _is_ embarrassing. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I was eighteen! I was raised by nuns!" Matt protests. "I didn't even know I _liked_ men until I met you, and it still took months to figure out after that. And by the time I did, you seemed...over me? Or, or used to me, or _something_." He gives an awkward horizontal shrug. "Yes, you did seem occasionally… _interested_ after that, but I figured it was just, just physical. Which was fine. You deserved so much better than me, anyway. You still do."

He goes morose on the last few words, and Foggy just _has_ to reach out and curve his hand over Matt's cheek. "Hey. No," he says, and kisses Matt softly. "Impossible. You're the best person I know." Matt looks unconvinced but doesn't argue. "So if you thought it was hopeless, why did you start flirting with me when you were in costume? And don't pretend that's not what you were doing."

Matt somehow goes even redder. "I don't know, I don't...Foggy, you have to understand. There's so much I have to pretend I can't do, every day. Everything I do as Matt Murdock is so _small_ and _careful_ and..." He shakes his head. "Being Daredevil - it's not the reason I do it, but God, it's so _freeing_. I can fight, I can use my abilities, I can just, can just _run_ when I feel like it, when I need to. Matt Murdock can't do any of that."

He reaches out and traces the ridge of Foggy's eye socket with one finger, curving down from his eyebrow and over his cheekbone. "But you...you knew. You know me better than anyone, and now you knew this too, and I could be the rest of myself with you, and...I didn't really think about it. I just." His hand drops away. "I guess I just wanted this one last thing that Daredevil could do that Matt Murdock couldn't. I'll admit it got...out of hand."

"That's one way of putting it," Foggy says wryly.

Matt cringes a little, but pushes on, because he is nothing but not a martyr. “Then later, when we...when you and I...in the office, I. I was so scared for you, Foggy, and it was like...if I was touching you, at least I knew you were still alive. If I was _kissing_ you, you were alive.” He closes his eyes, and Foggy suspects that if he had his glasses in easy reach right now he’d be putting them on. “I couldn’t think about anything else, after. And then you were attacked.”

For a minute Foggy doesn’t understand the connection, and then… “Oh, no. Matt. _Matt._ That wasn’t your fault.”

“I _promised_ you,” Matt says, voice tight. “I _promised_ I wouldn’t let you get hurt, and they nearly _killed_ you, and how could I ask you to take a chance on me when I couldn’t even keep my word to you?”

“ _Matty_ ,” Foggy says, aching for him.

“And then.” Matt drags in a breath. “And then you said you just wanted your best friend. You didn’t want anything else. You didn’t - you didn’t want _me_ to be anything else.”

It takes another minute for Foggy to remember what Matt’s referring to. _Oh_. The night after the hospital. “No, no,” he says, thumb stroking Matt’s cheekbone. Matt’s eyes flutter open. They’re a little red. “Matt, that’s not what I meant. I just wanted you _with_ me.” He licks his lips. “I always want you with me.” Matt still looks guilty and unconvinced, so he says, "Hey, do me a favor?"

"Anything," Matt says immediately.

"Next time you're secretly in love with me, don't wait ten years before telling me, okay?"

_That_ startles a smile out of Matt. "Oh. Uh. Likewise."

"Deal. Hey, Matt?"

"Yes, Foggy?"

Foggy hooks two fingers into Matt's collar and pulls him close. "I'm in love with you," he says, and kisses him.

He could live on Matt's smiles, he's pretty sure - especially this one, which is big and relieved and so beautiful it takes Foggy’s breath away. "Likewise," Matt says again, and surges forward to kiss him back, hands coming up to cup Foggy's face.

This time Foggy doesn't tease him about his eagerness. This time Foggy lets the heat and the urgency of Matt's kisses take his breath away, lets Matt push him back into the mattress and straddle him like he can't get close enough. Demanding as Matt is, it's so much better than that night in the office, so much sweeter without anger and confusion and fear turning the desire bitter on Foggy's tongue.

"You're overdressed," he manages to mumble against Matt's lips, pulling his tie loose. "Gonna actually get you naked this time, Murdock."

"Well, if you must, you must," Matt says, but the fact that he's grinning like a dork takes some of the impact out of his airy tone. He helps Foggy unbutton and tug off his shirt, squirming deliciously on top of Foggy as he does. And...wow. Foggy's seen it before, of course, but _wow_.

"Jesus Christ, you're hot," he says, skimming his hands over the curve of Matt's biceps, his rippled abs. Matt pushes into his touch with little sighs, amazingly responsive.

"Language," he says, but his heart's clearly not in it.

"You take the Lord's name in vain all the time, you hypocrite," Foggy says, undoing Matt's fly. Matt rocks up on his knees to push his pants and boxers down over his hips, wiggles gracelessly out of them, and there's an aroused Matt Murdock in all his glory sitting on top of Foggy and looking very pleased about it. "Uh."

"What was that?" Matt's grin widens. "Have I finally managed to render Foggy Nelson speechless?" He curls forward, bumps his nose against Foggy's before tilting his head so that his lips just barely brush Foggy's when he speaks. "Let's see if we can't help you find your voice."

He kisses Foggy, but just for an instant; then that hot mouth is working its way downwards, over the curve of Foggy's chin to press wet and open against his neck, even as Matt skims callused hands up over Foggy's sides. Foggy spares half a second to worry that Matt won't like what he "sees," but it's pretty clearly a baseless fear. Matt's touching Foggy everywhere like he can't get enough of him, and making happy little sounds that vibrate through Foggy wherever Matt's mouth lands.

"Matt," Foggy breathes, and reaches for him, but Matt ducks under Foggy's arms and moves lower.

"Sorry," he says, kissing Foggy's solar plexus, his thumb swiping over one of Foggy's nipples and making his breathing stutter. "I've got somewhere to be."

"You and your lines," Foggy says, then belatedly realizes what Matt means. His heart must do _something_ audible at that, because Matt lifts his head and gives Foggy the smuggest grin Foggy's ever seen in his _life_. "Yeah, yeah, you're a sex god. Just wait until it's your turn, Murdock."

"I look forward to it," Matt drawls, and places a tender kiss just above Foggy's belly button. He lavishes Foggy's stomach and hips with affection as he works Foggy's fly open, as he tugs Foggy's pants and boxers off and tosses them off the bed.

"You, you gotta be careful where you throw all that clothing," Foggy says, trying to keep his voice light and amused even though he's hard as a goddamn rock. "My boyfriend's blind, he could trip."

He worries, in the seconds after the word falls out of his mouth, that it's too soon to be saying "boyfriend," but Matt looks absolutely radiant at it. "Poor guy," he says, trying and failing not to smile. "Ah well, I guess there are compensations."

"Were you perhaps referring to ravishing my nubile body?" Foggy asks, gently prodding Matt's hip with his big toe.

"It's possible."

"And is that a task that you plan to address within the near future?"

"Hmm...thinking about it." Matt looks _entirely_ too amused, and Foggy's about to toe-poke him again until he curls forward, leans down - and bypasses Foggy's dick entirely to kiss the inside of his left thigh. Which, yes, is very nice, but _not_ a blowjob.

"Matt..." Foggy whines, even as he spreads his legs a little wider.

Matt gently bites Foggy's right thigh. "Yes, Franklin?"

What an asshole. God, Foggy loves him. "Do you think you could perhaps hurry this particular show along to its denouement?"

"Mmm...don't think so." Matt closes his eyes and rubs his cheek against Foggy's thigh before nosing his way up the seam of his hip flexor. "I've waited a long time for this."

"Are you _smelling_ me?" Foggy asks, even though he already knows the answer. The memory of Matt gasping and rutting against him that night, drinking him in, is burned into his brain to stay. "You horny little bloodhound."

Matt goes pink again but he's still inhaling like Foggy's a fine wine, or the first flowers of spring. "Is it my fault if you smell incredible?"

Foggy reaches down to run his fingers through the messy fluff of Matt's hair, and smiles when Matt pushes into his touch. "I bet I _taste_ even better."

Matt snorts again. "That was shameless. You are a _hussy_ , Mr. Nelson."

Foggy can’t quite suppress a shiver, not when Matt’s calling him that in bed after so many times calling him that in costume. _There’s_ a kink he never knew he had, or maybe it’s just Matt. Matt finally, _finally_ turns his head and nuzzles along Foggy's shaft, and Foggy's snappy comeback turns into a sigh. "If it ain't broke..."

Matt chuckles, then steadies Foggy with one hand while he presses wet, open-mouthed kisses up his length. "God, Foggy," he murmurs, breath gusting cool over where he's left Foggy's skin damp. "Do you have any idea how long I've been wanting to do this?"

Foggy really wants to say something funny, but Matt Murdock's gorgeous mouth is about a centimeter away from his dick, and it's kind of shorting out his humor processors. "Uh...I think you said something about ten years?"

"Something like that." Matt drags his tongue along the underside of Foggy's cock. "You _do_ taste good. In case you were wondering."

"I. Uh." For the second time tonight, Foggy's been rendered speechless. He can't even bring himself to be annoyed at how pleased with himself Matt looks before he wraps his lips around Foggy. "Oh, _fuck_."

Matt makes a triumphant noise and takes Foggy deeper, deep into the soft wet heat of that perfect mouth. "God," Foggy breathes. He sinks his fingers into Matt's hair before he catches himself, but when he goes to take them away Matt makes a noise of protest, so Foggy leaves them there, tangled in the soft strands. Matt doesn't bother to keep his eyes open and Foggy lets himself bask in Matt's beauty; in the dark crescents of eyelashes against his cheekbones, in the hollow of his stubbled cheeks as he bobs his head, the shocking redness of his mouth as it stretches around Foggy.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," he manages, scratching gently at Matt's scalp, petting, little motions with his hands to distract himself from how much he wants to thrust up, up into that welcoming heat. "Matt… _fuck_ , Matty, you're so good."

Matt hums, pleased, and strokes his hands up Foggy's thighs, skates them down over his hips, touches everywhere he can reach like he's committing Foggy to memory. His tongue presses against the sensitive spot beneath the head of Foggy's cock and Foggy can barely keep his hips still. "Christ, you feel so damn good," he groans, and Matt pokes him admonishingly in the thigh. "I know, I know...hh… _language_. Be worse at blowjobs and I'll be less… _fuck_...sacrilegiously effusive in my praise."

Matt pulls off. His mouth is wet and his face is flushed and happy and Foggy wants to give him everything, the entire _world_. "I can't be _that_ good, if you can still string together phrases like 'sacrilegiously effusive.'"

Foggy grins. "Yeah? What are you gonna do about it, Murdock?"

And, well, Matt's always been competitive, but Foggy was unprepared for this particular manifestation of it; for Matt diving back down onto Foggy's cock and sucking like he's on a mission. Foggy can't help the steady twitch of his hips now and Matt encourages it, hands curving under Foggy's ass and pulling him closer, closer, until Foggy’s dick bumps against the back of Matt’s throat; deeper, more, _yes_. He's never been able to resist the righteous flame of Matt's determination and this is no exception, as teasing turns to begging turns to sobs.

Matt wanted him incoherently vocal, and Foggy's never loved giving Matt what he wants more. By the time he tips over the edge the only warning he can muster is a desperate yank on Matt's hair, which just makes Matt moan and thrust against the bed and swallow around Foggy as he comes, pleasure shivering through his veins.

When Matt pulls off, he rests his chin on Foggy's thigh; it's kind of bony and uncomfortable, but Foggy can't really bring himself to care. "That's better," Matt says, with a smile like he knows full well how many of Foggy's fantasies he's just fulfilled.

Foggy huffs, too spent to even laugh properly. "Come here," he says instead, and Matt crawls up to meet him, lets Foggy lick his way into Matt's mouth and suck the taste of himself from Matt's tongue. "See, you should've just done _that_ back in college. Saved us all a lot of time."

Matt laughs. "Sure, we could've saved three whole years of law school by flunking out of undergrad because we were fucking and not studying."

"You're not as irresistible as you think, Murdock," Foggy says, but he undercuts his own argument by letting his hand slide down over Matt's flank, over the gorgeous curve of his ass. Matt pushes forward, hard against Foggy's hip. "Oh, was there something you wanted?" Foggy asks.

Matt brushes a kiss over the hinge if Foggy's jaw. “You don't have to…”

“Hush your nonsense talk.” Foggy gently pushes Matt's hip away to give himself some room to work; skims his fingers down over Matt's taut abs, which quiver beneath his touch, damp here and there with precome. Matt sighs when Foggy closes his hand around Matt's dick, silky-smooth and rigid. "This okay?"

Matt nods, and drops his head to Foggy's shoulder with a gasp when Foggy tries an experimental stroke. "Y-yeah. Yeah. Fuck, Foggy, I love your hands."

Foggy thumbs the head of Matt's cock and smiles when Matt thrusts helplessly forward. "Yeah?"

Matt's face is hot against Foggy's neck; he's not sure if it's desire or embarrassment or both. "When you touch me...even if it's just on my hand or my shoulder, I can't help thinking about you touching me _everywhere_."

"Like here?" Foggy asks, trying out a twist on the downstroke that he's always enjoyed on himself. From Matt's bitten-off moan, he likes it too.

"Among. Among other places," Matt says, and it's _Foggy's_ turn to flush hot as he ponders the implications. "You're always so _warm_..." He muffles another sound against Foggy's neck.

Foggy leans away, ignoring Matt's noise of protest, and shifts them so that Matt's on his back and Foggy's propped up on one elbow, still stroking Matt with the other hand. "Here. Like this," he says. "I want to see you."

Matt makes a dismissive sound but stays where Foggy put him, feet bracing on the mattress so that he can push into Foggy's fist. "Just don't stop touching me," he says, and Foggy's pretty sure he didn't mean for a wistful note to creep into the end of that.

"No worries there, buddy," Foggy assures him, leaning in to kiss that red mouth. "Love touching you. Going to keep touching you for the foreseeable future."

He makes good on his promise, moving his hand faster on Matt's dick, showering his upturned face with kisses before pulling back to enjoy the view. He made the right call rearranging them, because Matt's _exquisite_ like this. The flush on his face doesn't stop there but spreads down his throat and over his chest; his stomach and thighs tighten every time he thrusts into Foggy's hand, and his dick is frankly a work of art. So's his face, that gorgeous face, expressive as always with his hazel eyes wide and wondering up at the ceiling, sweat beading on his brow, mouth slack when it's not begging Foggy for more.

His fingers are twisted in the sheets so tightly Foggy's sure they'd rip if they were plain old cotton. In fact, he's clutching them so tightly it looks like he's holding himself back, almost as if...

Foggy drops his mouth to Matt's ear. "Don't you want to touch me?" he asks, and Matt's choked sob tells him he was right. "You're not the Hulk, Matt. You won't break me."

“ _Foggy_ ,” Matt groans, reaching for him. One hand lands on his chest; the other wraps around the forearm of the hand Foggy's stroking him with. Matt’s grip is tight, eager, and it might leave a bruise or two but Foggy doesn't care. He's survived so much worse this week; he wants Matt to mark him, to reclaim Foggy's body from the bruises left by hands that didn't love him.

"Beautiful," Foggy murmurs against his ear. "You're so fucking beautiful, Matt, do you know that? Love you so damn much."

He moves a little faster and Matt gasps, whimpers and clings to him, hips stuttering. "Fuh. Foggy."

"Always, Matty." Foggy kisses the shell of Matt's ear, bites the soft lobe. "Always loved you, since the very beginning. Always will."

" _Please_." Matt's obviously close, jerking helplessly under Foggy's touch, breath hitching. "Foggy, please, please, please..."

"Come on, baby," Foggy breathes. "Come on, Matty. Let me see you."

Matt's lips move soundlessly, stumbling over what looks like an F sound - "fuck" or Foggy's name, Foggy's not sure which. It's lost in a wordless cry as he comes all over Foggy's hand, hanging onto him like he's afraid Foggy will flee into the night.

Not in _this_ lifetime, that's for damn sure.

Foggy keeps stroking Matt gently until he collapses back against the pillows with a soft, wounded noise. Then he gently detaches Matt's hand from his wrist and fumbles for the tissues on the nightstand. "You okay there, buddy?" he asks as he wipes them both down.

Matt's quiet for a minute. Then he makes a low, amused sound, says "Beats grinding you up against a table," and latches onto Foggy like a lamprey.

"Listen, bucko, that was your idea," Foggy retorts, but he wiggles contentedly in Matt's arms, rearranging them slightly until he's comfortable, with Matt's head pillowed on his shoulder.

"You didn’t exactly discourage me."

"Well, next time try to look less hot in your Britney Spears cosplay."

"In my _what?_ " Matt asks, laughing.

Foggy does some hasty math in his head and realizes Matt wouldn't have seen that music video. "There was a video with her in a red catsuit, she was on Mars...it doesn't matter." Matt still looks baffled - happy, but baffled - so Foggy cranes his neck awkwardly to kiss him. "Don't worry. I'd pick you over Britney any day."

"Well, good." Matt cuddles in closer. "I'd hate to have to sue her for alienation of affection. I bet she's got a killer legal team."

"Yeah? I bet Nelson and Murdock could take 'em. I hear they just won a big case."

"Oh, that was all Nelson. Murdock's just coasting. Riding his coattails."

"No wonder his name comes second."

Matt snuggles up against Foggy's shoulder and sighs happily when Foggy cards his fingers through his hair. “I told you. It sounds better when you come first.”

There's a beat; then Foggy says “Was that a _sex pun?_ ” with mingled admiration and mock outrage, and tugs Matt’s hair when he snickers. “Terrible. _Terrible._ ”

“You love me,” Matt retorts, and again, Foggy doesn't think he's imagining the wistful note that creeps into it.

“I really, really do,” he agrees.

Matt’s thumb strokes over one of Foggy's ribs as his eyes drift closed. “Do me a favor and don't take any dangerous cases for a while, okay?”

“I'll try,” Foggy promises. “I think I'll be okay, though. I got a superhero with a crush on me.”

Matt sounds like he's half asleep, mumbling into Foggy's chest. “Is it Thor?”

“It's Black Widow. She's hot for my body.”

“Mmm. Fight her for you.”

“I know you would.”

Matt has apparently decided to let Foggy have the last word, because he makes a sleepy noise but doesn't say anything else. Foggy presses a kiss to the top of his head.

He can't really promise never to take another dangerous case. He may not have Matt’s compulsion to throw himself bodily against evil, but he wants to do good, and this is still Hell’s Kitchen.

But he’s got the best lawyer in New York City - not to mention the scourge of the criminal underworld - on his side. Matt may be a reckless, self-loathing mess and a study in contradictions, but he’s all Foggy’s - and so’s Daredevil.

Bring it on, Hell’s Kitchen, Foggy thinks as his eyes drift closed. He and Matt just might make it.


End file.
